


Nolo, Nolle, Nolui

by Nithu



Series: Nolo, Nolle, Nolui [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 54
Words: 145,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nithu/pseuds/Nithu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nolo, Nolle, Nolui : To be unwilling, wish not to, refuse.</p><p>"Passion and shame torment him, and rage is mingled with his grief."  (Virgil)</p><p>Fearghal Cousland refuses to leave his family and Duncan is forced to conscript him into the Grey Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fearghal Cousland hurried around the corner and ran straight into Rory Gilmore. Gilmore fell back against the wall and Fearghal put out a hand to steady him. Fearghal look round quickly to make sure there was no-one nearby, then pressed up against Rory.

"Why, Ser Gilmore. In such a hurry," he remarked with a sly smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Rory grinned at him, flushing slightly. "I was looking for you, actually."

"And now you've found me. What a lucky coincidence," breathed Fearghal, brushing his lips against the other man's.

Gilmore laughed, a little nervous. "Fearghal! Someone might see! We promised you parents we'd be discreet," he hissed.

"There's no one around," murmured Fearghal, kissing Rory more firmly. The other man groaned, Fearghal felt his lips part and seized his opening, thrusting his tongue into Gilmore's mouth. Gilmore pressed against him and Fearghal felt his arousal build. He pulled his head back, grinning, and leaned his groin against Gilmore's hip.

"Why, Ser Gilmore... I do believe you _are_ pleased to see me." His voice was husky with desire. "I have an errand to run for father but it won't take long. Maybe we could continue this somewhere more private?"

"F-Fearghal. Your mother sent me to look for you," Gilmore told him shakily.

Fearghal growled in frustration and stepped back.

"Your hound's got into the larder again and Nan's threatening to leave," Gilmore informed him with a grin.

Fearghal snorted. "Nan's always threatening to leave. I don't know why she thinks we all believe she ever will. She's as much a part of Castle Cousland as mother and father are. They'll have to carry her out feet first!"

Rory Gilmore sniggered. "That's as may be, but _she's_ up in arms, the _kitchen's_ in an uproar and your _mother_ wants you to deal with it."

Fearghal started to protest, only to be interrupted.

"Your mother was quite clear, Fearghal. You're to do this, no matter what else you've got on."

"Alright... but only if you come with me," said Fearghal, smirking.

Rory laughed. "Why? Are you afraid of Nan's wooden spoon?"

Fearghal pressed against Rory again, pressing him against the wall. "No. I just want to grope you in the pantry, of course," he purred into Rory's ear.

Gilmore blushed but didn't protest. When he nodded, Fearghal gave a triumphant laugh and pressed his lips against Gilmore's jaw then turned and set off towards the kitchen, leaving Rory flushed and breathless, scrambling to catch up.

"Fearghal! Wait!" called Gilmore.

Fearghal slowed his pace, half-turning to Gilmore.

"Is it true that there's a Grey Warden here?" asked Gilmore, his eyes bright with curiosity.

Fearghal nodded casually. "Yes, he was with Father and Howe earlier." Fergal stopped and faced Gilmore.

His voice took on a teasing tone. "Apparently he's here looking for recruits. Said he wanted to test someone but I can't remember who it was now." He pretended to think. "Now, was it Damon? Or Marcus, maybe?"

He laughed when he saw Rory's eyes narrow and leaned in close. "Actually, now I come to think of it, he's threatening to take away the best knight in the service of Highever. My very own Rory Gilmore."

Gilmore couldn't hide his excitement. "Really? He said he wanted test me?" he demanded.

Fearghal smiled ruefully. "Well, who else would he be here for?" His face was suddenly serious. "Will you go, if he finds you suitable?"

Regret flashed across Gilmore's face. "I'd be mad not to, but... "

Fearghal nodded. "Of course!" He frowned. "I wouldn't ask you to turn down a chance like this but... " he paused, the words suddenly difficult to say. "I'll miss you," he finished huskily.

Rory looked pained. "Fearghal, I ... "

Fearghal stopped him with a small laugh. "Who knows, maybe I'll run away to join the Grey Wardens too."

Gilmore looked shocked. "You couldn't! Your Father would never allow it. He'd be heartbroken."

Fearghal grimaced. "I know... and I could never do that to him." He took a deep breath and laughed shakily. "It's a nice idea though, run away to join the Grey Wardens in pursuit of my lover." He nudged Gilmore. "We could fight our way across Ferelden, killing darkspawn as we go."

Gilmore laughed. "But first, we need to deal with your hound and placate Nan."

"Indeed," agreed Fearghal. Together they headed to the kitchen.

"That bloody dog's got into my larder again," announced Nan as Fearghal entered the kitchen.

"Never fear, dear Nan, Highever's finest are here to aid the damsel in distress," Fearghal told her, giving her his most charming smile and sweeping an elaborate bow.

The kitchen servants giggled while Nan merely scowled at him.

"Don't you think you can get round me like that, master Fearghal," she told him, waving a wooden spoon threateningly. "Get that mangy mutt out of my larder! I've got more mouths to feed than you can shake a stick at and none of us can get near the food. If he gets at the venison, I'll have his guts for garters."

At the sound of his master's voice, Fearghal's hound began a frenzied barking. Fearghal shot Nan what he hoped was a suitably apologetic look and sidled past her, heading for the larder door with Gilmore following close behind. The two young men slipped into the larder and Fearghal shut the door firmly behind them.

"Maker's breath, Bane," groaned Fearghal, "You have horrible timing."

The hound paused his barking and looked up at his master whining, then began a frenzied pacing.

Fearghal looked at the dog, puzzled, then across at Gilmore. "I do believe he's trying to tell me something."

The dog ran to a pile of crates, growling. Curious, Fearghal followed and pulled the crates to one side then jumped back as a large rat leaped out. Drawing his sword he slashed at the rat, sending it scuttling toward Bane, who snatched up between his jaws and crunched. Bane barked approvingly, then snarled and darted forwards, catching another rat as it emerged.

"Ugh! How many of these things are there down that hole!" exclaimed Fearghal in disgust.

Gilmore drew his own sword as several rats ran out from the hole. Both men and the dog enthusiastically despatched the vermin in the larder; the men swinging their swords at the rats, heading them off and driving them towards Bane who finished them off with more enthusiasm than was decent.

"There must have been a nest or something there. I hate rats!" Gilmore shuddered.

Fearghal caught hold of him and pushed him against the wall, grinning. "Well, in that case, you were very brave, ser knight."

Rory grinned back at him. "And do I get a reward for my bravery, my Lord?"

Fearghal leaned in and kissed him, slowly and deeply. Eventually, he drew back, flushed and breathless. He leaned his forehead against Gilmore's. "Come to my room after dinner and I'll reward you properly," he promised, his voice thick with desire.

Rory gazed into his eyes and nodded. "I look forward to it," he murmured, his own breathing ragged.

Fearghal grinned wickedly, then pulled back, spun on his heel and threw open the larder door.

Nan looked past him at a dazed and flushed Gilmore and smiled knowingly.

"Your larder is now safe, Nan," Fearghal told her. "It was infested with vermin, flushed out by my noble hound, and despatched by myself and Ser Gilmore."

Nan raised her eyebrows, disbelievingly, then tore her eyes away from a guilty-looking Gilmore and spied the dead rats on the floor. "Rats! In _my_ larder!" The kitchen servants shrieked at this news, earning a scathing look from Nan.

"Look at all that mess. And who's got to clean it up, eh?"

Fearghal grinned cheekily at her. "I think our work here is done. One hound's reputation redeemed, one larder made safe. We'll leave you to it, Nan. I need to attend to something for Father."

With that, he grabbed Bane's collar and dragged the mabari out of the kitchen before Nan could protest further, and made his escape. He whistled jauntily to himself, excited by the prospect of his assignation with Rory.

As he made his way up to Fergus's room to deliver Father's message he ran into his mother and was able to reassure her that all was now well in the kitchen. His mother was entertaining Lady Landra and her son, Dairren. Fearghal smiled to himself. He'd had a huge crush on Dairren a few years ago. The man was still attractive, but soft-looking; he spent most of his time with his nose in books. Rory, on the other hand, was all hard muscle, more than a match for Fearghal's own strength. Fearghal shivered in anticipation. He smiled blankly as Lady Landra introduced her new lady's maid, a vapid-looking elf. While Fearghal did find some women attractive, he liked his women to have a little more _fire_ about them than this timid-looking creature seemed to have. His attention wandered again. There was plenty of fire to Rory Gilmore once his embers were stoked; he more than lived up to the promise of his flame-coloured hair. As soon as he could, Fearghal made his excuses and left in search of his brother, Fergus.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal lounged on his bed, clad only in breeches and a thin shirt, his ears alert for the sound of Gilmore. Fergus had left for Ostagar with their men, and his wife, Oriana, had opted for an early night. Mother had retired soon after dinner, as had most of her guests. Father was probably in his study entertaining Arl Howe and the Warden-Commander and likely wouldn't retire for hours. With almost everyone abed, it would be safe for Gilmore to sneak into the family's quarters.

Fearghal felt a thrill of anticipation ripple through him. Rory Gilmore had been his lover for almost a year now, yet the mere thought of him was still exciting. He had been anxious initially that Rory thrilled him for all the wrong reasons: the thrill of seeming unobtainable, the thrill of the forbidden. Not that those things _hadn't_ thrilled Fearghal when he had first developed an unexpected crush on the young man he had known since boyhood. It was just that those things weren't even issues any more.

There was a very solid friendship underpinning their robust physical relationship. A friendship that had deepened into something more fundamental after they became lovers. Indeed, it was this friendship that had given Fearghal pause when he had become attracted to Gilmore; it wasn't something he wanted to risk for the sake of indulging an infatuation, especially when he'd had no idea that Gilmore was even attracted to men. Rory had, incredibly, been obtainable; he wasn't forbidden. Fearghal's parents were both aware of the relationship and, while not entirely happy about it, they were prepared to accept it, provided Fearghal and Rory were discreet.

Now Rory thrilled him for other reasons. Even now he could be occasionally coy and shy, his face flaming as red as his hair; something which tickled Fearghal no end. But he had hidden depths of passion beneath that innocent, sometimes hesitant, exterior. He could use his hands and mouth to transport Fearghal to such a height of ecstasy, it left him whimpering and begging for more. He was also gratifyingly responsive to Fearghal's attentions. Fearghal shivered as he called to mind soft skin under his hands, hard muscles tensing and flexing, the exact way Rory would whisper hoarsely, " _Fearghal... please..."_

Fearghal chuckled softly to himself. He'd thought of Rory Gilmore as a _naïf_ , himself as the more experienced man. He'd assumed that Gilmore was interested only in pretty girls although with hindsight, he'd realised that he'd never seen him with a girl. He remembered the first time he'd realised he fancied Rory Gilmore.

 _Fearghal laughingly dipped the point of his practice sword down and pressed it against Rory Gilmore's throat as he lay flat on his back in the dust of the practice yard, under a blazing hot sun._

 _Gilmore grinned up at him. "I yield!" he cried, squinting up at Fearghal._

 _Fearghal stepped back and extend his hand to help Gilmore up. "You almost had me there," he admitted._

 _Gilmore's green eyes glowed with humour. "I know," he smirked. "Your day is coming soon, My Lord. One of these days it will be you on your back, yielding to me!" he boasted._

 _Fearghal burst out laughing. "Oh-ho! Bold words, my friend. Let's hope I don't make you eat them!"_

 _Gilmore laughed over his shoulder as he walked over to the bucket of water at the side of the practice yard, shaded by the fence. He grasped the ladle, raised it to his mouth and drank greedily from it. He started to strip off his gauntlets, shoulder guards, throwing them carelessly on the ground, and then grasped the bottom of his splint mail chest piece and wrestled his way out of it, while Fearghal looked on, amused. Gilmore's linen shirt was plastered to his body with sweat. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Gilmore tore it off over his head, tossing it aside. He stooped and lifted the bucket then upended it over his head._

 _Fearghal felt a sudden blaze of desire course through him as the water streamed over Gilmore's head, plastering the sweat-darkened hair even closer to his head. Rivulets of water ran down his neck and over his torso, the muscles shivering involuntarily as cool water met hot skin. Fearghal almost moaned aloud at the unexpected urge that coursed through him; the urge to stride over there and kiss Rory Gilmore_ _**hard** _ _, and then lick the water from his skin._

 _Thank the Maker, I'm not the oldest and that Fergus is safely married and has an heir._ Fearghal knew that his brother's marriage and resulting son was the main reason that his parents were prepared to accept his nature and his relationship with Gilmore. They had been tolerant initially of his refusal to entertain the idea of marriage, prepared to put it down to him 'sowing his wild oats'. They even knew that he preferred to sow those wild oats with young men, but wrote it off as 'a phase'.

Fearghal's father was an indulgent parent, particularly towards his headstrong, younger son. Bryce Cousland knew that Fearghal had inherited his mother's obstinacy and believed that gentle guidance was far more effective than peremptory instructions. Mother and son loved each other deeply, but locked horns far too often, neither one prepared to give an inch to the other. It was his mother's increasing and obvious impatience with Fearghal's resistance to her attempts at matchmaking that had led Fearghal to seek out his father for the most uncomfortable conversation of his life to date.

Fearghal smiled wryly. His father had taken some convincing when Fearghal had explained that it wasn't a phase he was going through, that he was attracted to men and had been since he was a boy, long before his teens; it was a part of his nature that wasn't going to change. The Teyrn became even more uncomfortable when Fearghal had informed him of his relationship with Rory Gilmore, a relationship that wasn't a casual fling. Bryce had grudgingly conceded that as Fergus was his heir, and as Fergus already had a son of his own, there wasn't actually a need for Fearghal to get married in order to secure the Cousland line. He had also extracted a promise from Fearghal that if, Maker forbid, anything should happen to Fergus or his son, then Fearghal would fulfil his duty and marry.

Surprisingly, Eleanor had been supportive when Bryce had related the conversation to her. Fearghal had expected her to dig her heels in, to refuse to accept the prospect that she would get no grandchildren from him, something he knew she looked forward to. Instead, she had come to him and questioned him gently about his relationship with Rory. Unlike his father, she didn't seem at all embarrassed about it. Her only concern was that unsavoury gossip might reflect badly on the Couslands and she had requested discretion from both him and Gilmore.

Fearghal grinned smugly to himself. All was well with his world. He fidgeted restlessly. _Or it would be if Rory would just_ _ **hurry up**_ _!_


	2. Chapter 2

Fearghal stiffened as he heard a soft noise out in the passage, then grinned in anticipation. He swung his legs off the bed, listening. He frowned as Bane growled softly; Bane wouldn't growl at Gilmore's approach.

Fearghal crossed the room swiftly and quietly and pressed his ear to the door. A high-pitched scream made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He rushed to his chest and threw up the lid, grabbing his sword and shield. Bane was still growling and now scraping at the bottom of the door. Fearghal opened the door a crack and peered out. One archer and a soldier with a sword and shield lurked in the passage, looking nervously around them.

"Bane, get the archer, boy," whispered Fearghal, then he threw the door open wide and Bane flew out of the door with a snarl and hurled himself at the archer before the man could bring his bow up fully. Both soldiers were taken by surprise and Fearghal charged out of his room with a yell, slamming his shield into the second soldier who was standing, just gaping at the dog. Stunned, the man reeled and Fearghal drove his sword through his chest. The archer was already dead, his throat torn out. Bane barked happily and wagged his tail as Fearghal patted his head approvingly.

Fearghal spun at the sound of a door opening behind him. Expecting to see Oriana, he was horrified to see a soldier, his armour splattered in blood, emerging from his sister-in-laws's room. The man was adjusting his cod-piece as he emerged and his eyes widened in terror at Fearghal's furious yell of rage. Before the man could draw his sword, Fearghal and Bane were on him and he was dead before he hit the floor. Leaving his hound worrying the corpse, Fearghal ran into Oriana's room, skidding to a halt at the sight that greeted him.

His nephew, Oren, lay on the floor, gutted. Oriana lay near him, her clothes in tatters, her throat cut. Fearghal ran to the bed and grabbed a blanket. _The least I can do is cover her._ As he laid the blanket over her, he couldn't fail to notice the bruises and bite marks that covered her breasts and upper body. His eyes swept round the room. A strange man lay dead, a small dagger buried in his neck, congealed blood pooling beneath him. Fearghal shook his head, trying to clear the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. _Who_ _ **are**_ _these men?_ He went rigid as another though struck him. _Mother!_

Fearghal ran across the passage and hammered at the door to his parents' room.

"Mother!" He tried the handle, it was locked. He called more loudly, torn between the desire to get his mother to safety but not wanting to draw attention from any soldiers who might be outside the family's private quarters. He heard the key turn in the lock and his mother's anxious face appeared.

"Fearghal! What's happening? I heard awful screaming and shouting."

"I don't know what's happening," he told her slipping into the room and locking the door behind him. "We seem to be under attack. Oriana and Oren..." he stopped, gulping, unable to say the words.

His mother was busy pulling armour and a bow out of a chest. "We must get to your Father," she told him urgently, pulling the old leather armour on. She beckoned to him. "Help me with these straps." Fearghal nodded and helped her fasten the straps, the leather aged and stiff.

Eleanor Cousland pulled a face. "It's past its best, but it will do." She shouldered her quiver, and readied her bow. At her nod, Fearghal opened the door cautiously and looked round. Seeing that there were no soldiers in the immediate area, he opened the door wide and went out. He crept cautiously to the door that led out onto the main corridor. He heard a soft cry behind him and looked back.

Eleanor stood in the doorway to Fergus's room, her eyes wide with shock. He crossed to her side and tried to gently draw her away.

"Who could do this? _Why_ would they do this? Oriana and little Oren." Her voice broke.

Fearghal didn't know what to say or how to try and comfort her. He shrugged helplessly, tugging on her arm. "Come, Mother. We need to find Father."

Eleanor resisted for a moment as she gazed sadly at her dead grandson, then her face hardened. "Whoever is responsible for this will pay dearly," she hissed angrily. Fearghal nodded and went back to his room and hurriedly donned his armour, then went back to the door. He snapped his fingers and Bane was at his side, tense and alert. Fearghal looked at his mother. "You and Bane take down any archers, I'll deal with the rest."

Eleanor nodded grimly and Fearghal opened the door.

It seemed to take forever to fight their way outside. Small pockets of soldiers were all over the guest quarters. Lady Landra, her son and her maid were dead. The invaders had obviously taken their sport with the women before killing them; their bodies bore similar marks to Oriana's. The women's mouths were stuffed with rags. _They couldn't even scream for help._ Fearghal felt a white hot rage building up inside him. The Warden-Commander's room was empty, as was Arl Howe's. Fearghal hoped that they were with his Father, helping to defend the castle from the invaders.

As they made their way out of the private quarters Fearghal spied a terrified servant and grabbed him.

"What's going on? Where's the Teyrn?" he demanded.

The man was almost beside himself in terror, his eyes rolled wildly in his head. "Howe's men! We are betrayed!" He wrenched himself free and fled.

"Howe?" Eleanor's voice was full of rage. "That treacherous bastard!"

Around them, small fires flared up, licking at timbers and walls, as they made their flickering progress across heavy curtains and tapestries. Fearghal grabbed Eleanor and together they and Bane fought their way to Bryce Cousland's study. It was empty. Slowly, they fought on towards the Great Hall. As they neared the doors, Eleanor broke away and headed down a side passage to the armoury. Swearing, Fearghal followed her. He could only shake his head as his mother produced the key and unlocked the huge, armoured door, slipping inside and pulling him after her. The room appeared eerie, the barred window illuminating the room with flickering light from the fires burning outside.

Eleanor opened a large chest against the far wall and drew out a sword and shield. She thrust them at Fearghal. "Here, they are better than what you have."

He gaped stupidly at them. "But these are the family heirlooms."

"It's about time they were put to good use, it's been far too long," Eleanor told him, pushing them at him. "Take them!" she commanded.

Fearghal obeyed, more out of habit than anything else. Eleanor turned back to the chest and drew out a heavy purse and tucked it into his breastplate. He frowned at her.

"Just in case," she told him.

Fearghal blinked at her. _Just in case... of what?_

Before he could ask any questions, Eleanor pushed him out of the door and back to the Great Hall. The doors were only feet away but they had to fight for every inch. Howe's men seemed to be everywhere. They finally reached the doors.

Fearghal hammered at them, while Eleanor yelled, "It's the Teyrna. Let us in!"

The doors opened a crack and a suspicious face looked out, then the doors opened wide enough to admit them. They were shocked to find Howe's forces had already managed to enter the Hall before the doors had been barred. With a yell, Fearghal charged a group of men that had surrounded Rory Gilmore. Bodies staggered as his shield smashed into the nearest and the rest fell like dominoes. The arrival of Eleanor and Fearghal gave new heart to the weary Highever men and they fought with renewed vigour until the last of Howe's soldiers were dead.

Rory and Fearghal stared at each other, both momentarily speechless with relief.

"You're safe," gasped Rory. "The others...?"

Fearghal shook his head. "Only Mother and I got out of the family quarters."

Eleanor joined them. "Ser Gilmore, have you seen my husband?"

"He left, with the Grey Warden. They were going to try and find you."

Eleanor Cousland swore under her breath. "They must have gone round the other way."

"My Lady, your husband said that you should make your way to the Pantry. He thought you might all make your escape by the servant's entrance there. He didn't think Howe's men would know of it."

Eleanor nodded. "We'll make our way there. Hold the Gate for as long as you can."

Rory nodded, smiling.

Eleanor started across the Hall, calling for Fearghal to follow.

Fearghal hesitated, then clasped Rory Gilmore to him in a fierce hug. "Don't be a hero, Rory," he whispered, trying to keep the pleading note out of his voice.

Rory hugged him back, just as fiercely. "Fearghal, I... " The regret in his voice was plain.

Throwing caution to the winds, not caring who saw, or what they thought, Fearghal caught Rory's face between his hands and kissed him passionately. Fearghal broke away. "Follow...if... when you can," he commanded, his voice cracking.

Rory nodded. "May the Maker watch over you, Fearghal," he whispered, pushing Fearghal away from him.

"May he watch over us all," answered Fearghal, stumbling towards the door.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal awoke to the sound of a loud groan. His eyes felt leaden and his head throbbed dully. He struggled to open his eyes and gasped with pain as the dim light pierced the darkness. He groaned as he tried to raise his head, setting off hammers on the inside of his skull. He almost sniggered at the thought that he had woken himself up groaning, then stopped realising that if he did so, his head felt like it might actually shatter.

He sensed movement and a firm hand pressed against his shoulder, pushing him back.

"Don't try to move just yet." That voice, Fearghal recognised it but couldn't place it. Not someone he knew well. He winced as a firm hand cupped the back of his head and lifted it slightly.

"Drink this," the voice instructed and Fearghal felt a vial at his lips, a cool liquid pouring into his mouth.

It was difficult to swallow, the angle odd, but Fearghal managed to do so. He recognised the slightly bitter taste of a healing potion and sighed with relief at the warmth that spread through him, the pounding in his head easing somewhat.

Duncan gently laid the young man's head down and watched as his face relaxed and he fell into a deep, but natural, sleep. A small frown of worry creased Duncan's forehead; he had his recruit but seeing how resistant Fearghal had been he was unsure, in hindsight, whether recruiting him had been wise. He shook his head. _It's too late now... what's done is done._

Duncan looked up at Castle Cousland, bright with flame. They were still too close, they needed to move as soon as possible. The young man had been heavy and Duncan hadn't been able to carry him far, plus the snoring had worried him; it wasn't a good sign in someone with a head injury. Fearghal's hound had followed him, eying him balefully all the way. Duncan felt a pang of regret; he hadn't wanted to get his recruit like this. _By any means necessary... this_ _ **is**_ _a Blight._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nolo, Nolle, Nolui : To be unwilling, wish not to, refuse.
> 
> "Passion and shame torment him, and rage is mingled with his grief." (Virgil)
> 
> Fearghal Cousland refuses to leave his family and Duncan is forced to conscript him.

Fearghal was woken by the sound of movement. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He vaguely remembered waking earlier, the way the odd light had stabbed his eyes and his head had pounded in agony. Warily, he sat up; his head swam a little and he felt a bit queasy, but he fought the nausea and looked around him. It looked to be shortly after dawn; the sky was turning light in the east. Fearghal frowned in confusion. _Where in the Maker's name am I? What am I doing outside?_ He looked round and caught sight of Castle Cousland; several plumes of black smoke rolled skywards, drifting slightly in the breeze.

In a flash it all came back to him. Howe had betrayed them. Oriana, Oren... dead. He recalled seeing Nan stretched out on the kitchen floor, her head stove in, her hand closed in a death grip on a wooden spoon. With a cry he struggled to his feet, lurching crazily as the world span around him. Hands reached to steady him.

"Take it slowly, Fearghal." That voice again. Fearghal's head whipped round and he fought down the urge to vomit that the sudden movement produced. He struggled to control his rebelling stomach as he glared at the dark man who was all but holding him up on his feet.

"You!" he accused. "You made me leave them. Father, Mother..." Fearghal looked back up at the castle. "Rory," he added, his voice almost a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Fearghal. I did what was necessary." Duncan's eyes were sympathetic, but his voice was unapologetic, for all his words.

"Necessary?" burst out Fearghal. "It was necessary to leave my mother up there to die? It was necessary to haggle with my dying father over your terms for getting me out of there?" His face twisted in a snarl. "Damn you, Duncan! Damn you and your order to the Black City!"

Duncan remained impassive under Fearghal's furious tirade. "We need to get moving. It's not going to take Howe long to realise you've escaped, and when he does, he's going to come looking for you. We need to get to Ostagar."

Fearghal gave Duncan a long look. _Fergus will be at Ostagar. The King..._ "King Cailan is at Ostagar?"

Duncan nodded.

"Fine!" snapped Fearghal, glaring at Duncan. The idea of travelling with this repellent Warden made Fearghal's blood boil. _But Ostagar is where I need to go._

~o~O~o~

Duncan was relieved to see Ostagar come into view. The journey from Highever had taken longer than it should as the two men had avoided the main routes, sticking to smaller lanes or going across country. Fearghal was a dour, surly companion. Duncan had hoped that the young man would come to understand his actions, but Fearghal wielded his anger like a shield; rebuffing any attempts at explanation or conversation. Duncan had tried to talk to him about the Grey Wardens, explain their purpose, some of their traditions, but Fearghal made it quite plain that he was only accompanying Duncan because he could see no other choice. Duncan silently thanked the Maker that this painful journey was almost over.

~o~O~o~

King Cailan gestured toward a seat, but Fearghal didn't even notice; he paced up and down inside the opulent tent.

"I appreciate you letting me talk to you privately, your Majesty."

"Please, Fearghal, allow me to extend my sincere condolences on the death of your Father. He was a good man and will be sorely missed." The King watched Fearghal, his eyes troubled. He understood what it was like to grieve for a much-loved father.

"And my mother and my sister-in-law and my nephew and... "

"What?" exclaimed the King, struggling to grasp Fearghal's meaning.

"They are all _dead_ , your Majesty," ground out Fearghal, a muscle in his clenched jaw twitching wildly.

The king stared at Fearghal, his eyes wide with shock.

"Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Castle Cousland," Fearghal spat out, almost choking on the hated Arl's name. "He arrived alone; he said his troops were delayed. Fergus left with our men, as planned. Once they'd gone... well... " Fearghal stopped, struggling to master his feelings. _Maker! Why is it so hard to_ _ **say**_ _?_

"I... can scarcely believe it! How could he think he would get away with such treachery!"

"If we were all dead, he could tell you anything he liked and there would be none to gainsay him. His men were killing everyone they could find; young and old alike. He obviously intended there to be no witnesses. The women... they were...were..." Fearghal's voice broke.

The king's face hardened as Fearghal related what had happened at Highever.

"As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word," he promised Fearghal.

"Justice?"

"He will hang." The king's voice was cold and furious. He looked at Fearghal and his face softened. "I know that will not bring your family back, but Howe will _not_ profit from this," he declared emphatically.

Fearghal nodded, some of the tension leaving his body.

"No doubt you will wish to see your brother." The king sighed. "Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."

"But he may be in danger!" burst out Fearghal.

"We are all in danger, my friend. Nothing can be done until your brother returns, and that will not be until the battle is over."

"I... understand. If I'm honest, I have been dreading bringing him this news," admitted Fearghal. He had been steeling himself all the way to Ostagar for the terrible task of giving his brother the news of what Howe had done to his family.

The king smiled ruefully at Fearghal. "Thank the Maker that Duncan was at Highever and able to help you escape."

Fearghal's face darkened with fury, making the astonished king step back warily. "May the Maker damn him to the Black City. When I refused to leave my parents and join his Order, he invoked something he called 'The Right of Conscription' and forced me away from the Castle, against my will."

Fearghal didn't fail to notice that the king looked disturbed by this information. "I beg you, your Majesty, overturn this Conscription. Let me fight here amongst your men, then go with you to Highever when this battle is done."

"I'm sorry, Fearghal, but I must let the Conscription stand." The King really did sound sorry; however there was no mistaking his resolve.

Fearghal felt sick. "But... but... " he protested weakly.

"Duncan believes we are facing a Blight and if he is right, then we will need every Grey Warden in Ferelden and possibly beyond."

"But _you_ don't think we're facing a Blight, Your Majesty," pointed out Fearghal desperately, recalling the king's brief conversation with Duncan.

Cailan pulled a face. "I can't afford to take that chance. I don't legally have the right to challenge the Warden's Right of Conscription. In other circumstances I'd ask Duncan to reconsider, as a personal favour to a friend." He smiled, obviously trying to cheer Fearghal. "The Grey Wardens are an old and esteemed Order. You should consider it an honour."

Fearghal snorted in disgust. "One of my fellow recruits is a Denerim pickpocket, practically conscripted from the gallows. Where is the honour in that, Your Majesty?" His voice rose and he was dangerously close to losing his temper.

"And the other recruit is, apparently, a knight from Redcliffe," Cailan informed him coldly. "I do not have the authority to overturn Duncan's decision to conscript you. I suggest you learn to accept it, ser."

Fearghal flushed, aware he had overstepped his bounds with the normally good-natured King. He bowed stiffly.

"Thank you for sparing the time to see me, Your Majesty," he ground out between clenched teeth. Before the King could reply, Fearghal had turned and stormed out of the tent.

~o~O~o~

When Fearghal had requested a private audience with the king, Duncan had given him some brief instructions, then headed towards his small encampment with Bane, Fearghal's mabari. He was not a little relieved to be out of Fearghal's company at last. Duncan wasn't intimidated by him, but he was wearing. Duncan suspected he knew what the audience would be about but refrained from saying anything. The younger Lord Cousland would learn the harsh realities of his situation soon enough. He glanced down at the hound, which whined and regarded him with reproachful eyes. _'Don't you start,'_ he thought testily. He looked up and saw Fearghal leave the king's tent

Fearghal mooched around the camp moodily. He wandered up a ramp and found himself in an Infirmary. He backed away from the sick, raving men and bumped into a cage.

"Oi! Mind yerself," came an indignant voice.

Fearghal turned to look at the prisoner, caged in only his small clothes. Intrigued, Fearghal talked to him for a little while; if nothing else, the man was a distraction. The prisoner explained that he was accused of desertion although, in actual fact, he'd been attempting a robbery. Fearghal thought it was a meaningless distinction, the man still deserved to be punished for his crime. The man's stomach rumbled loudly.

The prisoner caught Fearghal's startled look. "I don't suppose you 'ave a bit of kindness in you, ser? I 'aven't 'ad a morsel to eat since they locked me up. I'm famished."

"How long have you been in there?" asked Fearghal.

"Three days," the man told him miserably.

Fearghal was appalled. They'd rarely held prisoners at Castle Cousland, but the few they'd had had always been fed and had their basic needs tended too. Fearghal took pity on him. "I'll be right back," he told the prisoner.

Fearghal headed over to the infirmary and managed to scrounge up some food. There was a pan of soup warming for those men who were well enough to take some nourishment. Initially, the irritated woman had tried to send him away, telling him to go to the mess tent if he was hungry; however when Fearghal had pointed to the prisoner and explained that the man was starving, she had softened slightly and thrust a bowl of soup and a stale heel of bread at him. Fearghal returned to the cage and passed the food through the bars.

"Hey! You there! What do you think you're doing?" demanded the guard.

Fearghal drew himself up to his full height and assumed his most haughty manner.

"I'm feeding the prisoner. As far as I know, we don't starve prisoners to death in Ferelden." He stared at the guard, almost daring him to argue.

The guard took in his manner and the quality of his armour and backed down grumbling.

It was slightly alarming how quickly the man stuffed the food down his gullet. Sated, for now at least, he'd smiled gratefully and slipped Fearghal a small key.

"It's for the chest that the tranquil fella keeps his stuff in. Just wait until he's asleep and 'elp yerself," he told a slightly shocked Fearghal.

Fearghal accepted the key reluctantly, telling himself that it would be dishonourable to steal from the Tranquil. _Then again, the Grey Wardens recruit thieves._ Overcome with bitterness, Fearghal moved away and headed towards King Cailan's encampment.

~o~O~o~

Alistair suppressed a groan as the disgruntled mage made plain his displeasure at being summoned by the Grand Cleric. He waited patiently for the man to wear himself out. _I'm only the messenger. The old bat knew this would get his goat._ Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man striding purposefully up the ramp. _Hello, who's that? I wonder if it's Duncan's new recruit?_ He eyed the newcomer curiously. He was slightly taller than Alistair but just as heavily built. Dark brown, almost shoulder length hair, braided at the front to stop it falling into his face, a small neatly-trimmed beard. The stranger wore similar armour to Alistair's own but, even from this distance, he could tell that it was very good quality; slightly worn but in good repair and well-cared for. The man's face was set in a hard expression, he looked almost as furious as the mage. _Not the new recruit then. What have I done to annoy_ _ **him**_ _?_

Growing bored at listening to the mage, Alistair made what he thought was a particularly witty, quip. The mage looked like he was about to explode, then snarled at Alistair and stomped away, rudely shoving the waiting stranger out of his way. The man stiffened in fury, glaring after the mage.

"Isn't it wonderful how the Blight brings people together?" offered Alistair light-heartedly.

The man swung back towards him, his face softened in surprise. His skin was fair, pale against the dark brown, almost black, hair that framed his face; a smattering of darker freckles covered his cheeks and brow. His eyes were dark blue, fringed with surprisingly long lashes. The hawk-like nose was slightly twisted and off-centre; badly set after a break. His lips looked plump and full between the bristles of his moustache and the neatly trimmed beard. Alistair felt his heart lurch in his chest. He stifled down feelings that he'd been wrestling with since Duncan had rescued him from the Chantry. _Andraste's flaming sword! He's a_ _ **man**_ _, Alistair. Don't even think about it._

The man's face hardened, the eyes turning cold. "Are you Alistair?"

Alistair was startled by the change that had come over the man. He'd seen a glimpse of a softer nature which was transformed in the blink of an eye into something distinctly more menacing. Alistair felt a moment of panic. Maybe the man had guessed what Alistair had been feeling when he'd looked at him. He swallowed nervously, nodding.

"I'm Fearghal. Duncan said I should seek you out."

"You're Fearghal? The new recruit?" Alistair couldn't hide his surprise.

Fearghal nodded stiffly.

"Yes, I'm Alistair. It's good to meet you." Alistair smiled warmly, stretching out his arm in greeting. He quickly regretted it when Fearghal regarded it suspiciously and just stood there. Alistair flushed, feeling foolish.

"Er... yes, well," he stammered, letting his arm drop when it became clear that the other man wasn't going to return the gesture. "We'd better get back to Duncan. If you have any questions, feel free to ask."

Fearghal snorted and strode back down the ramp. Alistair watched him for a moment, then followed. _What is_ _ **wrong**_ _with the man?_ There was something very off about Fearghal, Alistair decided. Jory and Daveth had both been full of questions, both about the Order and trying to find out more about the Joining ritual. Jory had been puffed up with pride at having been invited to join the Grey Wardens; Daveth had been mostly relieved at having escaped the long arm of the law, but enthusiastic nonetheless.

Alistair tried to remember what little Duncan had written about his trip to Highever. He'd gone to test a knight there, but Alistair would have sworn that the man's name had been different, although he couldn't remember for the life of him what it had been. This man certainly carried himself like a knight; he was obviously comfortable in his armour and carried its weight easily; his sword and shield were worn casually. Alistair peered at the device on the shield Fearghal bore. Was that Highever's device? Duncan had finally sent word of his imminent return last night, but the short note had only mentioned that Fearghal was a conscript, not a volunteer. Alistair was tempted to ask but knew he couldn't. It was an unwritten rule of the Grey Wardens; never ask a man about his past.

Alistair's unease deepened when they reached Duncan. Duncan greeted Fearghal courteously, receiving only a grunt in return. Alistair looked at Duncan in confusion only to receive a warning look and an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Duncan sent Alistair to round up Daveth and Jory and by the time he returned Fearghal was ignoring Duncan completely and crouched down fondling the head of a huge mabari. Duncan made introductions, which Fearghal barely acknowledged, and then proceeded to detail their mission in the Korcari Wilds.

"Any questions?" Duncan looked round.

Fearghal stood. "Fill the vials with darkspawn blood, collect the treaties," he summed up abruptly. He snapped his fingers at the dog who leaped to his feet eagerly.

"Leave the hound here," instructed Duncan.

Fearghal glared at him, then motioned the dog to stay. Alistair, Jory and Daveth all stared in astonishment when he grinned insolentlyat Duncan, telling the dog, "If I don't come back, take his throat out." The hound barked once happily, then fixed Duncan with a baleful eye. Ignoring them all, Fearghal strode towards the gate.

Fearghal was through the gate before the others managed to catch up. Alistair watched, almost amused. Both Jory and Daveth looked ill at ease and out of their element but Fearghal seemed completely unconcerned. Alistair would have been amused, except that he suspected that Fearghal just didn't actually give a damn; that could cause trouble for the rest of them.

The first trouble they ran into was a pack of wolves. Fearghal hefted his shield and drew his sword, Jory drew the huge two-handed sword he carried and Daveth hung back, drawing his short bow. It didn't take them long to see off the wolves. They were half-starved and sickly, which was probably why they'd been driven to attack humans in the first place.

Alistair hung back for a moment, curious to see how the other three fought together. He was particularly interested to see how Fearghal fought, given that he too seemed to favour a shield and long sword. Alistair recognised the familiar forms that he himself had practiced for years, until they had become second nature. Fearghal's style was very different though. He was graceful, his movements efficient yet there was a raw power about the way he wielded the shield. Alistair thought of himself as a defensive fighter but there was nothing defensive about Fearghal. He fought an aggression that was foreign to Alistair. Fearghal threw his shield around with the same ease as his sword; and to the same deadly effect Alistair noted, as he watched Fearghal swing his shield so that the upper edge caught the last wolf in the throat with so much force it knocked it flying off its feet. As it lay there struggling to breathe, Fearghal drove the point of his sword through the wrecked throat.

About a mile further on they came across a party of scouts that had been slaughtered. One of the men moaned feebly. Alistair was surprised when Fearghal crouched down beside him. Alistair could sense the taint in the man quite apart from the fever in the man's eyes, which told its own story. Feeling dispirited, he started to reach into his pack for bandages; the least he could do was patch the poor bugger up enough for him to make it back to the camp. Fearghal's sudden movement and the flash of his dagger across the wounded man's throat had the others crying out in shocked alarm.

Before he even thought about what he was doing, Alistair had grabbed hold of the front of Fearghal's armour and hauled him to his feet.

"What do you think you're doing? Are you _insane_?" he yelled furiously.

Fearghal looked at him, his eyes cold. "He was already dead." he said calmly.

Alistair felt his anger give way to disgust. He pushed Fearghal away, sneering, "Remind me never to get injured anywhere near you."

The fury that seemed to lurk ever near the surface showed briefly in Fearghal's face. "Have you _seen_ those poor bastards in the Infirmary? Raving and screaming and not a damn thing any healer can do for them?" he demanded, his voice rising.

He looked round them all, daring any one of them to contradict him. As abruptly as it had appeared, his anger vanished again, his eyes went cold. "I'd hope that at least one of you would have the balls to do the same for me, in the same circumstances."

Fearghal laughed harshly at their shocked expressions. "There are worse things than dying." His face twisted. "Sometimes, surviving is one of them," he added bitterly.

As Fearghal pushed past him, Alistair shrugged in response to the quizzical looks from Jory and Daveth. They hurried after Fearghal who was waiting for them further down the faint path they'd been following. It wasn't long before they encountered their first group of darkspawn. Alistair felt the familiar tingle, the tugging in his blood. He shouted a warning to the others and ran forward grabbing his sword and shield. After a moment's hesitation, Fearghal followed suit and followed. A moment more and Jory was pulling the great sword from his back while Daveth fumbled for an arrow with trembling fingers.

Fearghal, Alistair and Jory ran forward to engage them, while Daveth hung back firing arrows rapidly from his bow. Alistair flinched as an arrow whistled past his ear. _Not one of Daveth's_. He risked a glance upwards and could see several genlocks on a small rise ahead of them. Before he could say anything, Fearghal rushed forward with a yell.

"Daveth! Shoot the fucking archers!" he bawled as he slammed into the first genlock, sending it flying into the one behind.

Alistair dug around in his pack for the empty vials Duncan had given him and crouched down at the side of the nearest darkspawn corpse and proceeded to fill one. As he moved around the corpses he kept half an eye on the others. Daveth was grinning cockily, relieved that their first encounter with the darkspawn had gone so well; Jory looked relieved but anxious, looking around him nervously; Fearghal looked... Alistair wasn't sure if there was a word for it. _Exultant? Satisfied? Hungry... hungry for more killing._ It made Alistair uneasy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nolo, Nolle, Nolui : To be unwilling, wish not to, refuse.
> 
> "Passion and shame torment him, and rage is mingled with his grief." (Virgil)

They had to fight several more groups of darkspawn before the crumbling tower came into view. It was just a shambling ruin; the roof was long gone and rubble lay scattered where parts of the walls had collapsed. A broken chest lay under the remains of a broken stairwell, empty. All four men peered glumly into the empty chest, then whirled at the sound of a soft chuckle behind them.

"Well, well, what have we here?" The feminine voice held a mocking tone. The woman descended the ramp at a leisurely pace. Fearghal was aware he was gawping like a slack-jawed fool and got a grip on himself. He glanced at the others; Jory had gone rigid with shock, his eyes bulging; Alistair was staring open-mouthed at the woman, blushing furiously; Daveth had composed himself and was grinning appreciatively at the unusual amount of skin on display.

The woman's appearance was unusual, to say the least. Black hair, pinned up; tawny, almost yellow, eyes; a strikingly beautiful face. She moved slowly, with a feline grace. Fearghal had never seen anything like the clothes she wore. The top was a scrap of fabric that barely covered her full breasts; a skirt that appeared to be made out of bits of leather, knee-high leather boots. The whole outfit was adorned with feathers and jewellery. Fearghal noted the staff strapped to her back. _A mage? An apostate?_

"Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" The woman spoke almost to herself, as if musing out loud; her speech was oddly old-fashioned, archaic even.

"What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?" Her gaze swept over the group of men below her, finally resting on Alistair.

"Don't answer her, she looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby," warned Alistair.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She'll turn us into toads!" muttered Daveth nervously.

Fearghal winced; it took all his self-control not to roll his eyes and bury his face in his hands groaning.

The woman seemed almost amused. "Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?"

"We would first know who you are and where you come from," ventured Fearghal, unwilling to admit to being an intruder or a scavenger and slightly irritated at the woman's accusation.

Fearghal found himself agreeing silently with the woman. _Grey Wardens! Are they all such fools?_

"You are the intruder here. I believe the first question is rightfully mine," asserted the woman haughtily. "I have watched your progress for some time," she told them. "'Where do they go?' I wondered, 'why are they here?'" The woman sauntered past them casually, over to the chest but didn't spare it a glance. "And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long." She turned to face them. "Why is that?"

The woman looked at Fearghal. "You there, handsome lad. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilised."

Fearghal hid a smile; it had been a few years since anyone as young as this woman had called him a lad. Her attempt at flattery was obvious, but he recalled what his father had taught him as a young boy. _Unless you have evidence to the contrary, always treat a woman as if she is the finest lady._

He bowed to the woman. "I am Fearghal. A pleasure to meet you."

The woman smiled delightedly at him. "Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan." She tilted her head to one side. "Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is there no longer?" she ventured.

"'Here no longer?'" burst out Alistair. "You stole them, didn't you?" he accused indignantly. "You're... some kind of... sneaky... witch-thief!"

Fearghal clenched his jaw, fighting the very strong urge to turn around and thump Alistair. _Damned fool! Just as we're getting somewhere he has to go and antagonise her again!_

"How very eloquent," scoffed Morrigan. "How does one steal from dead men?"

"Then who removed them," asked Fearghal before Alistair could open his mouth again.

"'Twas my mother, in fact," Morrigan informed them.

"Can you take us to her?" asked Fearghal quickly, hearing Alistair take a deep breath.

"There is a sensible request. I like you." Morrigan smiled warmly at him. "Follow me then, if it pleases you," she instructed, heading briskly out of the ruined tower.

Fearghal turned to scowl at his three companions, then headed after her. He was past caring if they followed or not.

Behind him, Fearghal heard Alistair snort. "I'd be careful. First it's," his voice took on a high-pitched, breathless tone, "'I like you'..." then returned to normal, "but then 'Zap!' Frog time!"

"She'll put us all in the pot, she will. Just you watch." Daveth's voice held a note of genuine fear.

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," grumbled Jory.

Morrigan led them deeper into the Wilds. Fearghal tried to memorise the way she brought them, but the paths wound and twisted through the trees. He could only hope she'd at least point them in the right direction when they headed back to Ostagar. Suddenly, the trees cleared and they found themselves outside a small, wooden hut.

Morrigan's mother was an elderly woman, who seemed a little... well, batty. She spoke in confusing riddles that seemed to puzzle her as much as anyone. There was something sharp about her eyes though that gave Fearghal pause. He tensed, expecting trouble, but the meeting was amicable enough. The old woman disappeared into the hut and reappeared bearing several scrolls. Alistair practically snatched them from her, inspecting them briefly, before stowing them in his pack and thanking her, albeit grudgingly.

To his relief, the old woman instructed her daughter to lead them back to Ostagar. Morrigan didn't seem pleased, but didn't argue. Her stiff manner didn't invite conversation, so Fearghal was content to follow in silence. His companions mumbled and muttered uneasily but mostly kept their thoughts to themselves. It was almost dark when Ostagar came into view. Morrigan bid them an abrupt farewell before vanishing into the darkness before they had a chance to reply.

The glow of Duncan's fire was welcome after the eerie gloom that had overtaken the Wilds as they neared Ostagar. Bane leaped to his feet and threw himself enthusiastically at Fearghal, who laughed and fussed the dog. Alistair watched curiously; the transformation was amazing. One moment he was a dour, menacing man with an air of barely-contained rage and violence about him, the next he was laughing like a boy at the antics of his hound, his face wreathed in a delighted smile.

"Were you successful?" Duncan's voice broke into Alistair's fascinated scrutiny of Fearghal and his hound.

Alistair nodded and rummaged in his pack, drawing forth the vials and the aged parchments.

Duncan indicated a stewpot warming at the side of the fire. "There's some food there, make sure everyone gets something to eat. I'm going to finalise the preparations. I'll be back soon."

Alistair crouched down beside the pot and grabbed the pile of large bowls Duncan had left there.

"Right, lads! Grub's up, come and get it," announced Alistair, ladling stew into the bowls and passing them out to eager hands.

Fearghal watched in amazement at the sheer amount of stew Alistair managed to polish off. He himself was a big man but Alistair easily ate twice the amount he had, and Fearghal was stuffed to the gills. Fearghal felt warm and full and, strangely, at ease.

"Are you part Mabari or something?" he asked, laughing.

Alistair was startled. Fearghal had been cold, if not downright hostile, all the short time he'd known him. He shrugged, blushing slightly at finding himself the object of the other man's attention.

"I think Bane was hoping for leftovers but you've cleaned the pot," said Fearghal, still chuckling. His hound laid his head on his paws, looking depressed.

"What can I say? I'm a growing boy," Alistair joked.

"Yeah? What you goin' to be when you grow up then? A _belly_ dancer?" demanded Daveth, grinning.

At that, they all burst out laughing.

Duncan returned bearing a jug of small beer and some tankards. He filled them up and handed them out. The atmosphere was companionable as they sat round the fire drinking their beer. Emboldened by the easing in Fearghal's manner, Alistair leaned forward, indicating Fearghal's shield.

"May I ... ?"

Fearghal nodded and passed it over. Alistair turned it over in his hands, admiring it, then slotted his arm through the _enarmes_ on the rear. It was surprisingly light, for all that it was obviously strong and sturdy. Almost reluctantly, he slipped his arm free and handed it back to Fearghal.

"It's a superb shield," he murmured.

"That's Highever's device, isn't it?" asked Jory.

Alistair saw Fearghal stiffen.

"My wife's at Highever," continued Jory, oblivious to the effect his words were having on Fearghal.

Alistair watched Fearghal's eyes go dead. He saw Fearghal glance at Duncan and was surprised to see Duncan give him a warning look and shake his head.

"Are you from Highever?" asked Jory.

"It's just a shield I picked up on my travels," grated out Fearghal, his jaw tight.

"So where _are_ you from?" asked Daveth curiously. "You must be from somewhere? You got family?"

The tension that was suddenly in the air was almost palpable. Bane sat up growling softly, then whined and laid his head on Fearghal's knee, gazing sorrowfully up at him. Fearghal raised his tankard and downed its contents in one gulp.

"No. No family." Fearghal glared at Daveth, who visibly quailed. If looks could have killed, Daveth was pretty sure he'd be dead.

Duncan stood and the other men followed suit. "All is ready, we can begin the Joining immediately." He looked round the recruits. "Let me be clear. You are not volunteers. Whether you were conscripted or recruited, you were chosen because you were needed."

He looked pointedly at Fearghal, who glared back at him, his eyes full of impotent fury.

"There is no turning back now. You must gather your courage for what comes next." Duncan tore his eyes away from Fearghal and looked at Jory and Daveth.

"Courage? How much danger are we in?" asked Daveth, his eyes wide.

Duncan sighed. "I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later."

"You're saying that this ritual can kill us?" demanded Fearghal. Alistair watched him closely. There wasn't a hint of fear, just that barely-contained fury he was becoming accustomed to seeing.

"As could any darkspawn you might face in battle. You would not have been chosen, however, if I didn't think you had a chance to survive."

Alistair was baffled when Fearghal burst out, "I had a _chance_ where I was! I could have _done_ something." There was no mistaking the anguish underneath the anger. "You should have left me there, not dragged me here... to this!" Fergus gestured around him, his contempt plain.

"There was nothing you could have done," Duncan told him sorrowfully, "and you would never have left." He met Fearghal's scowl unwaveringly. "You are needed here," he added firmly.

Alistair prepared to draw his weapon as he saw Fearghal clench his fists at his sides. He'd been warned that some men balked at taking their Joining. Fearghal looked as if he was just a moment away from attacking Duncan.

The tension eased somewhat when Daveth interrupted, "Let's go, then. I'm anxious to see this Joining."

Jory concurred. "I agree. Let's have it done."

Duncan looked across at Alistair. "Then let us begin. Alistair, take them to the old temple."

Alistair nodded, then beckoning to the others, he led the way to the site Duncan had chosen for the Joining.

The old temple was secluded and offered some privacy from prying eyes. The four of them assembled there and awaited Duncan.

"The more I hear of this Joining, the less I like it," muttered Jory, pacing nervously.

"Are you blubbering again? scoffed Daveth.

Fearghal gave them both a dirty look and wandered over to the edge of the temple. Alistair watched him apprehensively. The man was like a tightly coiled spring.

Alistair was relieved to see Duncan heading up the ramp. His enthusiasm faded when he saw the chalice Duncan bore. He'd not admitted it to himself until now, but he was dreading the Joining.

Duncan strode across the temple and set the chalice down on a ledge. "At last we come to the Joining," he announced. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

"We're... going to drink the blood of those... creatures?" gasped Jory

Duncan nodded. "As the first Grey Wardens did before us," he explained. " _This_ is the source of our power and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon," added Alistair.

"Those who survive?" Fearghal looked expectantly at Alistair, who was silently cursing him.

Duncan intervened, to Alistair's relief. "Not all who drink the blood will survive, and those that do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay." He glanced over at Alistair. "There are only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said from the first. Alistair, if you would?"

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you," intoned Alistair, his head bowed.

Duncan reached for the chalice. "Daveth, step forward." Unflinching, head held high, Daveth stepped forward and accepted the chalice offered by Duncan. He paused for a second then raised it to his lips and drank, grimacing slightly at the bitter taste as he swallowed. For a moment nothing happened and he handed the chalice back to Duncan, then his body jerked as his muscles started to spasm. A keening wail of pain escaped his lips as his eyes rolled back in his head and he staggered, dropping to his knees. His body convulsed as his body rebelled against the poison and he gagged and retched as his stomach tried to expel it. Frantic hands scrabbled at his throat as he choked and struggled for breath. He collapsed to the ground and was still.

Duncan crouched down and checked for a pulse. "I'm sorry, Daveth," he murmured sadly. He stood and looked at the two other recruits. Fearghal stood watching, his face closed but his eyes held both horror and accusation as he gazed back at Duncan. Jory looked terrified, his eyes wide and round.

"Step forward, Jory," commanded Duncan.

Jory backed away, his face pale and sweaty, shaking his head. "But... I have a wife. A child! Had I known... " As his back bumped against the wall, he reached up drew his sword.

"There is no turning back," Duncan warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!" babbled Jory, brandishing the huge two-handed sword in front of him.

Alistair risked a glance at Fearghal. He was watching the two men closely, his face impassive but a spark of interest in his eyes. Alistair readied himself. He didn't doubt that Duncan could handle himself against Jory, but he didn't trust Fearghal an inch further than he could throw him. Duncan set the chalice down on the ledge and drew his dagger. Jory swung wildly at him, not even grasping his sword with two hands. Duncan easily parried the blow, knocking the large sword aside. He stepped in close and slipped the dagger between the joints of the warrior's armour. Jory's eyes went wide with shock and pain as the knife slid between his ribs; it was a killing blow. His eyes closed as he slid down the wall, blood frothing between his lips.

"I am sorry," murmured Duncan as he lowered Jory's body gently to the ground. He wiped his dagger clean and replaced it in its sheath.

Duncan picked up the chalice and turned to Fearghal. "The Joining is not yet complete," he said.

Fearghal met Duncan's eye steadily. "My father had no idea about this, did he?" he asked, his voice soft but hard.

Alistair was surprised to see a flash of shame cross Duncan's face.

"We do what is necessary. It isn't always _noble_ ," Duncan retorted, his eyes flinty.

"You extracted a promise from my father as he lay _dying_!" burst out Fearghal. "He thought he was _saving_ me," he laughed bitterly.

"And you refused my offer," Duncan reminded him. "Lest you have forgotten, I invoked the Right of Conscription."

"I suppose I should be thankful he's dead and will never know how little your word is worth," Fearghal spat out contemptuously. "You betrayed him, just like that bastard, Howe. I despise you and I despise the Grey Wardens."

Alistair was aware, in some corner of his brain, that he was gaping and that he should probably close his mouth. His eyes darted to Fearghal, then Duncan, then back to Fearghal. Duncan's voice brought him up short.

"You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good," thundered Duncan, thrusting the chalice at Fearghal.

Fearghal snatched the chalice from Duncan. Raising it to his lips, he tipped his head back and drained it of its contents.

"From this moment forth, you _are_ a Grey Warden," said Duncan, regaining his composure.

Fearghal lowered the chalice, then tossed it to the floor, glaring defiantly at Duncan.

Alistair watched as Fearghal's body convulsed, and his hands came up to his head. He could see Fearghal's jaw clench as he attempted to bite back a moan. Fearghal swayed but, incredibly, stayed on his feet, almost bent double, for several more seconds before his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed and lay still. Duncan crouched by his side, feeling for a pulse.

"He lives," said Duncan, with a sigh of relief.

"Maker's breath, Duncan! He drained the cup. He drank two doses of the poison," said Alistair.

Duncan nodded. "He's strong. His _will_ is strong."

Alistair groaned. "The downside being that he seems bent on pitting his will against you... us." He hesitated, then asked. "Who is he?"

Duncan sighed. "It's a long story, and now is really not the best time. We should attend to Daveth and Jory before he comes round. I'll tell you more later."

As they busied themselves removing the corpses of the failed recruits, Duncan asked, "How did he fight? Out in the Wilds?"

"You mean you conscripted him without having seen him fight?" he asked incredulously.

Duncan's lips twitched in a small, rueful smile. "Let's just say that his reputation preceded him."

Alistair's eyebrows went up, but he refrained from asking any more questions, although he had several.

Duncan's eyes twinkled; he was well aware of Alistair's inner struggle. "I went to test a knight, Ser Roland Gilmore; by all accounts Fearghal was apparently even better than Gilmore, but there were other considerations that made recruiting him seem unlikely, if not ill-advised even. However, circumstances changed suddenly. I had the opportunity to recruit Fearghal and Gilmore was... no longer an option."

"But he didn't come willingly, you had to conscript him?"

"I had to conscript him, then hit him over the head to get him away," Duncan admitted.

"Hit him over the head? No wonder he seems so pissed off!" exclaimed Alistair. "Anyway, you were asking about how he fought. He's extraordinary." He shrugged. "I've never seen anyone fight with a shield like he does." He grinned sheepishly, a little embarrassed at how impressed he sounded, then frowned. "He worries me, though. He's reckless and... well, it's like he doesn't care if he lives or dies. Not necessarily what you want in a team."

Duncan nodded thoughtfully. "I promise I will explain more later. For now I'll just say don't be quick to judge him. He's been through a lot. He's _lost_ a lot. Right now he probably _doesn't_ care if he lives or dies. I think if we give him time, he'll come around. He's fiercely loyal and would fight to the death for the things he cares about."

Alistair snorted. "Let's hope he comes to care for the Grey Wardens then," he said, although his dubious tone implied that he thought this was unlikely.

Behind them, Fearghal stirred, moaning softly. Alistair went over to him and crouched down. He was still out cold, but would probably wake soon. He looked down at the man and felt a stirring of sympathy. From what Fearghal had said during his Joining, his father had died recently; was grief the cause of his anger? For all his bitterness and fury, there had been glimpses of a different man; a man who treated strange women in the forest as if they were nobility; a man who laughed with pleasure at being reunited with his hound.

Duncan joined Alistair as Fearghal whimpered and thrashed around restlessly. "Not long now," he opined.

 _Fearghal stared in terror at the enormous dragon that reared above him. The creature flapped its huge wings and fixed Fearghal with a baleful eye, as if the monstrous creature was somehow taking his measure. Fearghal looked around, frantically searching for an escape; there was none. An unearthly shriek filled the air. The awful noise both repelled him and drew him closer. Fearghal struggled but found his feet moving towards the mighty dragon._

Fearghal's eyes flew open. Duncan was leaning over him, his dark brown eyes warm and full of concern. Alistair peered over Duncan's shoulder anxiously.

"It is finished. Welcome," said Duncan softly.

Fearghal felt a surge of relief. He wasn't alone with that... thing. He allowed Duncan to help him to his feet.

"Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was... horrible." Alistair shuddered. "I'm glad at least one of you made it through,"

Fearghal was surprised at the note of genuine relief in Alistair's voice.

How do you feel?" asked Duncan.

Reality and memories rushed back in. Fearghal's face hardened. "I still can't believe you killed Ser Jory," he muttered.

"Jory was warned that there was no turning back, as were you all. When he went for his blade, he left me no choice." Duncan's voice was calm. He'd let Fearghal rattle him before the Joining, he wasn't going to let it happen again. Besides, it wasn't the first time he'd been forced to kill a man.

"It brought me no pleasure to end his life," asserted Duncan. "The Blight demands sacrifices from us all. Thankfully, you stand here as proof they are not all made in vain."

"Did you have dreams?" asked Alistair, desperate to change the subject. "I had terrible dreams after my Joining."

Fearghal nodded, looking uncomfortable at the admission.

"Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do," Duncan explained. "That and many other things can be explained in the months to come."

"I can't wait," muttered Fearghal sarcastically.

"Before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining," said Alistair, frowning. "We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us... of those who didn't make it this far."

Alistair held the pendant out to Fearghal. For a long moment Fearghal just looked at it and Alistair feared he would refuse it. Eventually he took it from Alistair's hands with an abrupt nod.

"For Daveth and Jory," he murmured as he slipped it over his head.

"Take some time," said Duncan kindly. "When you're ready, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king."

"I don't need any time," said Fearghal.

Duncan looked uncertain. "Are you sure? I really don't think... "

"I'm fine," insisted Fearghal stubbornly.

"Very well." Duncan turned and led the way out of the temple, leaving Alistair to make his way back to their encampment.


	5. Chapter 5

Fearghal followed Duncan back to their encampment, scowling furiously. He was furious that Cailan had insisted a Grey Warden light the damned signal beacon; he wanted to be in the battle. He could feel the white-hot rage building in him again. Sometimes it took all his self-control not to let it consume him. Fighting darkspawn in the Wilds had brought some relief; he'd been looking forward to the fighting. What was worse, Duncan had decided it needed _two_ of them to light the Maker-damned beacon; that idealistic fool, Alistair, was to accompany him. He brightened at the thought that Alistair was likely to be furious about that decision as he was.

They reached the large camp fire. Alistair looked up eagerly as they drew near. Duncan nodded to him, then turned to face them both.

"You heard the plan, Fearghal. You and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit."

"What? I won't be in the battle?" interrupted Alistair, furiously. Fearghal hid a small smile.

"This is by the King's personal request, Alistair." Duncan's tone brooked no argument. "If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain's men won't know when to charge."

"So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch? Just in case, right?" Alistair couldn't hide his disdain.

"We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn... exciting or no," said Duncan wearily. It seemed to Fearghal and Alistair that even he thought the King's demand was excessive and overly-cautious.

Alistair held his hands up in defeat. "I get it. I get it," he assured Duncan. "Just so you know, if ever the king asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

Fearghal sniggered at the mental image, in spite of himself. "I don't know. That could be a great distraction."

Alistair flashed a grin at Fearghal. "Me shimmying down the darkspawn line? Sure," he drawled, "we could kill them while they roll around laughing."

Duncan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Briefly he gave them directions to the tower and instructions on when to light the beacon. Fearghal nodded and turned to leave.

"Duncan... may the Maker watch over you," said Alistair, suddenly serious.

Fearghal stiffened, recalling the last time he had heard those words. _Rory!_ A pang of grief welled up in him. Furiously blinking back tears, he strode towards the gorge.

Duncan's faint reply was almost lost on the wind. "May he watch over us all."

Alistair hurried down the steps onto the bridge just in time to see Fearghal blown off his feet, caught on the edge of a blast from a fireball. _Maybe the Maker does have a sense of humour, after all._ When Alistair reached him, Fearghal was still laid on his back, looking half-dazed. Alistair reached down and hauled him to his feet, turned him round to face the right direction and gave him a little shove. To his credit, Fearghal kept moving, although Alistair suspected he had no idea where he was until they hit the far side of the gorge.

As they headed up the steps and towards the ramp leading to the tower they were met by a mage and a panic-stricken looking soldier.

"You... you're Grey Wardens, aren't you? The tower... it's been taken!" the soldier stammered.

"What are you talking about, man? Taken how?" demanded Alistair.

"The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers! They're everywhere! Most of our men are dead!"

"Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!" declared Alistair.

The soldier nodded and ran off before they could stop him. The mage hovered indecisively. Fearghal collared him before he could run off too.

"You! You're with us!" he commanded. The mage hesitated, then nodded. "What's your name?" asked Fearghal, less harshly.

"Brendan, ser."

"Right, Brendan. Forgive me if I'm teaching you to suck eggs; stay to the rear, let me, Alistair and Bane lead the way."

The mage nodded while Alistair looked around and realised that Fearghal's hound had joined them. Alistair and Fearghal drew their swords and started towards the ramp.

"A moment, sers," called the mage. Fearghal and Alistair halted, looking back at him. Brendan muttered some words and made a gesture with his hand. Fearghal almost dropped his sword when flame wreathed it. He looked at it warily, then looked over at Alistair's and saw it was the same, orange flame dancing along the length of the blade.

"It won't harm you, ser," Brendan assured him, "but it will hurt whatever you strike with your blade."

"Thanks," said Fearghal said with a feral grin. He glanced up at the tower looming over them, then at Brendan and Alistair. "Last one to the top's a big girl's blouse," he challenged, then raced up the ramp with Bane hot on his heels.

Brendan gave Alistair a startled look, to which Alistair merely shook his head. "Insane," he offered by way of explanation, then set off up the ramp. By the time he got to the top, Fearghal and Bane had already charged into the first group darkspawn and were busy causing havoc.

Fighting their way into the tower wasn't that difficult. There were still small groups of soldiers outside, putting up some resistance against the darkspawn. With Alistair, Fearghal, Brendan and Bane to help, the darkspawn outside the tower were soon put down. Once inside though, things got more difficult. They'd gone in alone, instructing the other soldiers to stay outside and make sure no more darkspawn got into the tower. Room by room, floor by floor; slowly they made progress up the tower. Alistair was startled to see Fearghal rifling through crates until he'd tossed some lyrium potions to the mage and managed to scrounge up some healing potions and poultices which he shared out with Alistair.

Alistair marvelled at Fearghal's seemingly limitless energy as he felt himself tiring. The man seemed unstoppable; he charged into every group of darkspawn screaming in fury, as if he took their very presence as a personal affront. Fearghal's rage had made Alistair uneasy before, it seemed to lurk so close to the surface; however, the man appeared to run on pure anger and he seemed to have a limitless supply to draw on. Alistair leaned against the wall at the top of yet another flight of steps, trying to get his breath back. Fearghal paused in front of the door, momentarily taking pity on him.

"Makers breath! What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde?" gasped Alistair, his chest heaving. "There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here!"

"Weren't you complaining that you wouldn't get to fight?"

"Hey, you're right," laughed Alistair, his breathing less laboured. "I guess there is a silver lining here, if you think about it."

Fearghal merely grinned in reply and threw the door open and charged, screaming, into the nearest darkspawn.

Finally, they reached the top of the tower. Alistair sagged with relief against the door to the top chamber. Even Fearghal seemed to be slowing, noted Alistair, as Fearghal tripped on the last step. Bane sniffed at the bottom of the door and snarled.

"What is it, boy?" asked Fearghal. Bane continued to worry the bottom of the door. "Alistair?"

Alistair frowned. "I don't know. Darkspawn... but it feels... different." He shrugged helplessly. "I've never felt anything like it before."

"Let's find out then," suggested Fearghal pushing open the door and stepping inside. He took a few steps in and then halted so suddenly that Alistair bumped into him. They looked round, struggling to take in what they were seeing. Body parts were strewn all around the chamber; soldiers had literally been torn limb from limb. In the centre of the chamber squatted a huge ogre, blood and slaver dripping from its vicious-looking maw. It straightened and turned slowly as it became aware of their presence.

"Shit!" breathed Fearghal, craning his head back to look up at the creature that now towered over them.

Alistair would have been impressed that something had finally intimidated his new brother, if he hadn't been so terrified. He racked his brains, trying to remember what he'd been told about the different types of darkspawn and how to deal with them. "We need to slow it down, it's big but fast. Keep moving," he instructed. He glanced at Brendan. "Ice," he told him, "as much and as often as you can."

The mage nodded his understanding, not taking his eyes of the vast hulking creature that confronted them. The gestured and the flames wreathing Alistair and Fearghal's swords guttered and died. "I'll need all my mana," muttered Brendan.

The ogre regarded them curiously for a moment, then roared its defiance at them. All three men flinched as the sound echoed round the empty chamber. Fearghal hefted his shield then charged it, Alistair and Bane close behind. They fanned out in front of the monster, attacking it simultaneously. Their blows bounced off its leather-like skin. With a growl, it swung its arm and a huge hand backhanded Fearghal, sending him flying. Fearghal had barely hit the ground before he was back on his feet and running behind the ogre. He sawed at the back of its heel, trying to sever the tendon. The creature howled in pain, lashing out at Alistair, smashing him to the floor before it turned on Fearghal.

The ogre stooped forward, trying to catch the annoying human on its horns. Fearghal swung his shield with all his might, desperate to fend it off. He landed a solid blow with his shield on its head and saw its eyes cross; it hesitated, shaking its head and blinking stupidly. Bane darted behind the ogre and sank his teeth into its damaged heel, gnawing determinedly. The ogre growled, and shook its leg trying to shake the dog off; Bane hung on grimly, his jaw locked on the tendon between his teeth.

Ice and lightning flew from Brendan's fingers, alternatively coating the monster with a layer of frost or sizzling and arcing across its skin. Alistair finally regained his feet and was unlucky to be in the way as the ogre kicked back with its free foot, desperate to dislodge the hound that worried its other leg. Alistair shot backwards, banging into Bane as he did so, finally knocking the dog loose. Bane's jaw was locked and as Alistair smashed into him, there was a tearing noise as part of the creature's heel came away in his jaw.

The ogre roared with pain and fury as its foot flopped uselessly at the end of its leg. It lowered its head and charged Fearghal. For all it was handicapped, its clumsy charge was still powerful enough to wind Fearghal as it knocked him backwards, sending him skidding along the floor on his back. Fearghal managed to roll out of its way as a huge fist slammed down towards him. Gasping for breath, he struggled to his feet. Fearghal dodged as its fist swung at him again. Although it missed Fearghal, it managed to catch Alistair, knocking him to the ground yet again. Bane had regained his feet and was busy ripping chunks of flesh out of the back of the ogre's legs. Brendan downed potion after potion and kept up a relentless barrage of ice and lightning.

As Alistair struggled to his feet, the ogre span with a terrifying speed and bore down on him.

Fearghal chased after it. "Hey! Over here, you motherless bastard!" he screamed, plunging his sword into the back of an exposed knee.

The ogre lurched as its injured leg started to give way. Alistair regained his feet and ran unsteadily past it. Fearghal ran past him, in the other direction. Fearghal turned and faced the staggering ogre as it started to collapse on one knee. With a blood-curdling yell, he leaped through the air. As he hit the ogre's chest, his momentum knocked it over backwards and he plunged his sword into its gaping maw as it howled in frustration. Fearghal leaned all his weight behind his sword, pushing it up, through the roof of its mouth, and into its brain. The ogre thrashed wildly beneath him, almost throwing him off. Alistair backed out of the way as the ogre's arms and legs flailed around in its final death throes.

Finally, the creature lay still. Alistair sank to his knees, trembling and gradually becoming aware of various hurts. He fumbled in his pack and drew out a couple of healing potions. He offered one to Fearghal, as he slid down off the ogre's corpse, and was felt some small satisfaction when he noticed the tremor in the other man's hand as he reached out to take it. Both men quaffed their potions and groaned with relief as the healing warmth spread through them.

"Maker!" groaned Alistair. "I seemed to spend most of that fight on the floor."

Fearghal huffed a soft laugh. "Bad luck," he said with a shrug. "I'll let the next one knock me around and you can do all the running about."

"The beacon's over there."

Fearghal eyes followed Alistair's gesture. He'd forgotten all about the beacon; the whole reason they were in the tower in the first place.

"We've surely missed the signal... let's light it quickly before it's too late."

Fearghal nodded wearily. He looked around. A burned-out torch sat in a bracket next to the beacon.

"Er, Alistair... do you have a flint?"

"What? No... I... " Alistair's eyes widened in dismay.

"Shit!" Fearghal swore softly.

"I think I could light it," offered the Brendan. "I'm not much use with fire but I can summon enough to light your beacon."

"Excellent!" Fearghal beamed at the mage.

Alistair looked up at Fearghal, wondering anew at how different he looked when the rage fell away.

The mage's lips moved and he gestured at the beacon on the far side of the chamber. A massive fireball hit the beacon and the force of the blast almost knocked Brendan and Fearghal off their feet. The beacon erupted, sending a huge gout of flame skywards. Alistair and Fearghal gaped at Brendan, who grinned sheepishly.

"Oops!" He giggled manically and Alistair looked more closely at him. His face was pale and sweaty; his eyes had a feverish look to them.

"I think someone's had too much lyrium," he drawled with a grin.

"Or he doesn't know his own strength," said Fearghal, sniggering.

Alistair snorted with laughter and it was infectious. Fearghal started to laugh and in moments both he and Alistair were howling with laughter, giddy with relief. Alistair lurched, nearly losing his balance and gripped onto Fearghal, almost doubled-over.

Still chuckling, Fearghal went back to the ogre and retrieved his sword. He looked across the chamber and started towards one of the windows.

"We should get a good view from up here."

Alistair and Brendan hurried over and leaned out. Below them they could see the king's army in the gorge. Although they knew the army was huge, it was dwarfed by the darkspawn horde that was threatening to overwhelm it.

"It looks like we got the beacon lit just in time," said Alistair. "Where's Loghain's army?"

Fearghal looked round, trying to get his bearings and apply what he'd seen on Loghain's map to the landscape before him, then pointed. "Look, up there, that ridge on the left."

"Why isn't he charging?" asked Alistair anxiously.

Fearghal grinned. "Loghain's probably giving them a speech..." He stopped spying movement at last amongst Loghain's troops. He frowned; Loghain's troops _were_ moving... the wrong way.

"Where's he going?" asked Brendan, puzzled.

"He's going the wrong way!" Alistair shouted.

Fearghal watched, white-faced. "He's retreating," he whispered, barely able to believe what was before his eyes. Fearghal felt the rage building up in him again. "He's retreating!" he yelled furiously.

Fearghal looked down into the gorge at the king's army, which was obviously struggling now.

"The King! We've got to warn the King!" He turned and set off across the chamber at a run.

Alistair felt the familiar tug in his blood and turned but had no time to call out a warning before a stream of darkspawn poured through the open door. Arrows slammed into Fearghal but his momentum kept him moving until the flat blade of an axe slammed into the side of his head, felling him. Alistair heard Brendan gasp and turned his head, seeing the mage slump to the floor, several arrows sprouting oddly from his chest. Something punched Alistair in the chest. He looked down and could see two arrows protruding from his armour. _How odd. It doesn't hurt at all._ Everything went black.


	6. Chapter 6

_Fearghal gazed down at his father, swallowing hard to try and stifle the sob that he could feel threatening to break free. Bryce Cousland lay on the floor of the pantry, leaning on one hand; the other pressed against his side, trying to hold a ragged wound closed, blood flowing freely around his fingers._

 _Eleanor cried out in alarm and pushed past Fearghal, crouching at the side of her husband._

 _"Bryce, you're bleeding! Maker's blood! What's happening?"_

 _The Teyrn's face twisted with pain. "Howe's men... found me first. Almost... did me in right there," he gasped._

 _Fearghal knelt at the side of his mother. "We need to get you out of here!" he urged._

 _Bryce looked up at his son, regret in his eyes. "I... I won't survive the standing, I think."_

 _Fearghal pushed away what his father was trying to tell him. "That's not true! You'll be fine!"_

 _Bryce smiled sadly at his son. "Ah, my boy... if only will could make it so."_

 _Eleanor looked from her husband to her son. "Once Howe's men break through the gate, they will find us! We must go!"_

 _Fearghal flinched; Rory was leading the defence of the gates._

 _"Someone... must reach Fergus... tell him what has happened." Bryce stared up at his son, willing him to accept what Bryce knew was inevitable._

 _"And take_ _**vengeance** _ _," growled Fearghal._

 _"Yes... vengeance," agreed Bryce, hoping that this would convince Fearghal to leave him._

 _"Bryce, no!" protested Eleanor. "The servants' passage is right here! We can all flee together, find you healing magic!"_

 _Bryce bowed his head; Fearghal got his stubbornness from his mother. "The castle is surrounded... I cannot make it."_

 _"I'm afraid the Teyrn is correct." Eleanor and Fearghal started in surprise, looking up at the man who'd joined them. Duncan, Warden-Commander, sheathed his sword as he joined them; both sword and his armour were caked in blood. Duncan continued, taking in the Teyrn's condition with a quick glance. "Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult."_

 _Fearghal studied the Grey Warden; obviously a skilled fighter, if the amount of blood and gore splattered all over his armour was any indication. Light on his feet and quiet too; he'd come upon them without giving himself away until he spoke._

 _"Will you help us, Duncan?" Fearghal asked, unsure what he could ask or expect of this Grey Warden._

 _"Whatever is to be done, it must be done quickly!" urged Eleanor. "They are coming!"_

 _Bryce groaned. "Duncan... you are under no obligation to me, but I beg you... take my wife and son to safety!"_

 _"I will, your Lordship. But..." Duncan hesitated, then appeared to come to a decision, continuing, "I fear I must ask for something in return."_

 _Fearghal stared up at Duncan in confusion, then at his father, who appeared to understand what Duncan was saying._

 _"What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in this world." Bryce's voice was resigned but resolute. Fearghal noted that his colour was worse, his skin looked ashen._

 _"I came to your castle seeking a recruit." Duncan looked at Fearghal. "The darkspawn threat demand that I leave with one."_

 _"I... I understand." Bryce's breath was coming in shallow gasps, it was getting harder for him to speak._

 _Understanding dawned on Fearghal. "What? No! I won't agree to any such thing." He glared at Duncan. "You came for Rory! Take him! He's in the Hall, helping to hold the gates."_

 _"No!" protested Bryce weakly. "There isn't time to go back for him. You are my_ _**son** _ _. How else will you survive?"_

 _"I will take the Teyrna and your son to Ostagar to tell Fergus and the king what has happened. Then, your son joins the Grey Wardens."_

 _Fearghal glared at the Warden in disgust._ _**You ruthless bastard! You would use me as a bargaining chip, the price for saving mother?** _

_"So long as justice comes to Howe... I agree," said Bryce, sinking closer to the floor, barely able to hold himself up._

 _Duncan looked at Fearghal. "Then I offer you a place within the Grey Wardens. Fight with us," he proposed._

 _"I refuse! I won't go!" snarled Fergus._

 _The Teyrn looked up at his son, his eyes begging. "Howe thinks he'll use the chaos to... advance himself. Make him wrong, pup. See that justice is done."_

 _Fearghal felt torn at the silent plea in his father's eyes. Under any other circumstances, he might have jumped at Duncan's offer but... not like this._

 _Bryce could see his son's resolve waver. "Our family... always does our duty first. The darkspawn must be defeated. You must go. For your own sake, and for Ferelden's."_

 _"I can't do it, Father. Please don't make me," implored Fearghal._

 _Duncan's voice was regretful but implacable. "Then I have no choice. I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription and recruit you into the Grey Wardens despite your objection."_

 _If Bryce could have spared the breath, he would have sworn._ _**Damn you, Duncan! I only needed another minute to convince him. He would have accepted this, accepted you. Now...** _ _Bryce knew how stubborn his son could be and it didn't bode well for Duncan or the Grey Wardens; Fearghal would fight this every step of the way if he was given no choice. Ultimately, he would resign himself to it, accept it, but he would give everybody hell along the way._

 _Bryce looked up at his son, trying to reassure him. "I'm sorry, pup, but...it's better this way." He could see by the tension in Fearghal's jaw that his son didn't agree with him._

 _"We must leave quickly," said Duncan firmly._

 _"Bryce, are you... sure?" asked Eleanor uncertainly._

 _The Teyrn smiled up at his wife. "Our son will not die of Howe's treachery. He will live, and make his mark on the world."_

 _"Darling," said Eleanor, "go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."_

 _"Eleanor..." protested Bryce weakly._

 _"Hush, Bryce," soothed Eleanor, her mind made up. Her face hardened. "I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time." She smiled at her husband. "But I won't abandon you," she added softly._

 _An anguished sob burst from Fearghal. "I won't let you sacrifice yourself!"_

 _Eleanor reached across and stroked her son's face. "My place is with your father. At his side, to death and beyond," she told him gently._

 _Duncan grabbed Fearghal's arm and pulled him to his feet, trying to get him to move towards the door. Fearghal couldn't tear his eyes away from his parents._

 _"I'm... so sorry it's come to this, my love." gasped Bryce._

 _"Ssssh," crooned Eleanor, taking her husband in her arms. "We had a good life, and did all we could. It's up to our children now."_

 _The Teyrn twisted in Eleanor's arms so he could look up at his son, blood pooling beneath him. "Go, pup," he urged. "Warn your brother. And know that we love you both. You do us proud."_

 _Duncan tried to drag Fearghal away. "They've broken through the gates. We must go_ _**now** _ _!"_

 _Fearghal was rooted the spot._ _**Broken through the gates... then that means... Rory! I can't go... I can't abandon them here like this...** _

_Duncan's hand gripped his arm, tugging insistently. Fearghal tensed; he had no intention of going with the Warden and abandoning everyone he loved. He'd fight the man if he had to._

 _Fearghal felt a sharp pain in his head and briefly saw stars, then it went dark. As the light faded, he heard his mother's voice, as if from a long way away._

 _"Goodbye, darling."_

* * *

Alistair slumped in the chair by Fearghal's bed. He'd offered to watch him, giving the old woman and her daughter a break; he couldn't sleep anyway. Not after the old woman had told him of the massacre at Ostagar. He looked up as Fearghal stirred restlessly. He'd been unconscious for three days now. Alistair remembered seeing the axe hit Fearghal in the side of the head, dropping him instantly. The old woman said his skull was cracked. In the last few hours Fearghal had started getting restless. The woman maintained that although he was starting to come round, he needed to rest; it wasn't good for him to thrash around like that. She'd cast a sleep spell on him, insisting it was safer for him to sleep until he could wake up properly.

Fearghal moaned, the words slurred. Alistair leaned forward, trying to understand what he was saying.

"No... won't go... won't leave them." A sob wracked him. "Father!"

Alistair frowned, unsure if he should get the old woman. He stood up and leaned over Fearghal. His words were clearer now, pleading. "I can't do it, Father. Please don't make me."

Alistair sat tentatively on the edge of the bed. _Maybe I should try to wake him?"_ His hand hovered over Fearghal's shoulder, he suddenly shy of making contact with the exposed skin. His eyes lingered on the broad, muscular chest; the large pectoral muscles covered in a thick mat of dark, curly hair. Alistair had a sudden desire to run his fingers over it; it looked soft. _Maker's breath! Get a grip!_

Fearghal's eye lids fluttered and he gasped, "The gates! They've broken through the gates!" There was no mistaking the dread in his voice.

Alistair shook Fearghal's shoulder and called his name softly, "Fearghal?" _Maker! What happened to him? I wish Duncan had had time to..._ Alistair blinked back tears at the thought of Duncan. He almost jumped out of his skin when Fearghal suddenly sat up and stared at him, blinking in surprise. A look of joyous wonder flooded his face. "Rory?" he whispered.

Alistair gaped at Fearghal. "What? No, I'm... " His explanation was cut off as he found himself enfolded in a fierce hug.

"Oh, Maker!" he breathed, his face buried in Alistair's neck. "Rory! When Duncan said the gates had fallen I thought... I thought...you were..." Fearghal's voice cracked. "Father's dying, Rory," he sobbed, "and mother won't leave him." Fearghal gulped and Alistair felt tears against his neck. "Duncan wants me to go with him, to join the Grey Wardens," his voice turned hard, "but I won't! I won't leave them." Fearghal's grip on Alistair tightened. "I won't leave _you_ ," he promised.

Alistair stiffly brought his arms up around Fearghal and patted the other man's back; there was no mistaking his genuine distress. Alistair found himself relaxing into the embrace, drawing some comfort for his own grief from it. He froze, when one of Fearghal's hands came up and caressed the back of his head gently and soft lips nuzzled at his neck, stiff whiskers tickling his skin.

The door opened and Alistair looked up to see Morrigan standing there.

"Er, help?" He winced as his voice came out as a high-pitched squeak. Alistair cleared his throat. "He thinks I'm someone else," he muttered, blushing.

Morrigan smirked at Alistair, her amusement at his embarrassment obvious. She gestured at Fearghal and Alistair felt him go limp in his arms. Gently he laid him down on the bed and pulled the sheet up under his chin.

Morrigan looked down at the sleeping man and then smiled slyly at Alistair.

"'Tis strange he should mistake you for a maid, even addled as he is."

"He didn't!" Alistair blurted out, stung. "He thought I was some bloke called Rory."

"Really? Yet he caressed you so tenderly, Alistair."

Alistair blushed, "Yes, well... I th-think they m-might have been... " He stopped, unable to speak the words.

"Lovers?" queried Morrigan, smirking.

Alistair nodded reluctantly.

Morrigan looked down again at the sleeping Fearghal. "Such a handsome man," she mused quietly, almost to herself.

"Yes," agreed Alistair with a sigh.

Morrigan looked up at him sharply.

"What? No! I mean... I s-suppose women would think him... handsome," stammered Alistair.

"Oh, indeed," agreed Morrigan, then added, "and many men would think so too... if they were that way inclined."

"I'm going to wait outside, you can watch him," growled Alistair, pushing past her.

Morrigan's mocking laughter followed him outside until he shut the door on it.


	7. Chapter 7

Alistair paced up and down outside the small wooden hut. He didn't know what to with himself. The waiting was unbearable. All there was to do was _think,_ and all he could thing about was Ostagar, Duncan and the king, his fellow Wardens, all doomed to die when Loghain turned his troops around and marched away. He stopped by the small pond, staring morosely into the green, brackish water. _There are only two of us left. What in the Maker's name are we going to do?_ He hoped that Fearghal would have some ideas if... when... he came round. He didn't particularly like the man but, apart from Alistair himself, he was the only other Grey Warden left in the whole of Ferelden.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal opened his eyes, wincing. His head felt heavy and his mouth was almost unbearably dry. He struggled to sit up. He felt stiff but, as far as he could make out, nothing was broken. He looked around him, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The room was small and poorly furnished. He lay on a narrow bed; it was hard but the linen was clean. He realised he wasn't alone. A woman stood on the far side of the room, perusing a bookshelf. Fearghal tried to say something but only managed to croak hoarsely. The woman turned. She looked very familiar, Fearghal was sure he knew her from somewhere but couldn't place her.

"Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased," she said, crossing to a jug and pouring some water into a cup. She moved to the side of the bed and handed him the cup. Fearghal drank the water gratefully; it was cool and fresh. Something about the odd way she spoke triggered a memory in Fearghal.

"I know you," he said, frowning up at her. "You're the girl from the Wilds?"

She nodded in agreement. "I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten." She gestured around her. "And we are in the Wilds, where Mother and I have been tending your wounds."

Fearghal swung his legs over the side of the bed. _Why am I in the wilds? We went back to Ostagar. I know we did. There was the Joining..._

"You are welcome, by the way," she added archly. She gave him a knowing look. "How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother's rescue?

Fearghal rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. _I remember the Joining... then Duncan took me to the War Council. The Tower! It was full of darkspawn... we killed that... thing, lit the beacon and then... the king, I was going to warn the king!_ Fearghal remembered running towards the door, there were darkspawn everywhere.

"I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn... " he told Morrigan uncertainly.

She nodded briskly. "Mother managed to save you and your friend, though 'twas a close call. What is important is that you both live. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend... he is not taking it well."

Fearghal's face darkened. _Loghain. You cowardly bastard!_ He covered his face with his hands as another thought struck him. _Fergus. Where is he? Had he returned to Ostagar..._ Fearghal took a deep breath, he couldn't afford to think of that now. Dropping his hands, he looked up at Morrigan.

"What happened to the Grey Wardens and the king?"

"All dead," Morrigan told him calmly. She looked slightly scornful. "You friend has veered between denial and grief since Mother told him."

 _My friend? All my friends are dead, murdered by Howe._

"He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke."

Fearghal nodded absently. "Were my injuries severe?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," admitted Morrigan, then went on to reassure him, "but I expect you will be fine. The darkspawn did nothing Mother could not heal."

Fearghal smiled at her. "Thank you for helping me, Morrigan."

She looked startled. "I... you are welcome, though Mother did most of the work." She shrugged, then smiled back at him. "I am no healer."

Fearghal stood. "I'll go then."

Morrigan's eyes swept over him in a frankly appraising look. Fearghal looked down; he was stark naked.

"Er... "

"Your things are in there." Morrigan pointed to a chest at the foot of the bed and turned away, busying herself at a small stove.

Fearghal dressed quickly. His undershirt bore faint bloodstains; the holes had been neatly mended with tiny stitches. The links in his chain mail hadn't been repaired, although the leather underneath had been patched in similar neat fashion. The money purse his mother had given him was underneath his belongings. He tucked it into his armour.

Once dressed, Fearghal stepped outside. His eyes hardened at the sight of Alistair standing with his back to him.

"See? Here is your fellow Grey warden. You worry too much, young man," said the old woman that Fearghal remembered from their previous visit.

Alistair spun round. "You... you're awake!"

"Afraid you were going to be left alone?"

Alistair didn't seem to notice the sneering tone. "Duncan's dead. The Grey Wardens, even the king... They're all dead," Alistair told him, his voice thick with grief.

 _They're all dead. Father and Mother; Oriana and Oren; Rory; Nan. All our friends; all the people that I grew up knowing. Fergus?_ Fearghal stared at Alistair, knowing that the pain in the brown eyes was a reflection of the pain he felt inside. A pain he had stuffed down deep inside himself ever since Duncan had dragged him out of Castle Cousland. A pain he couldn't afford to feel right now.

"This doesn't seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead on top of that tower." Alistair spoke, almost to himself.

"Well, it _is_ real. Get used to it." Fearghal's voice was hard and cold.

Alistair flinched, shocked at both the tone and the words. _Maker's Breath! He doesn't care about_ _ **anything**_ _! What kind of monster is he?_

"Don't talk about me as if I am not present, lad," interrupted the old woman haughtily.

"I-I didn't mean... but what do we call you? You never told us your name." Alistair flushed with embarrassment, feeling like a naughty child.

The woman waved off his apology. "The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."

Both Fearghal and Alistair stared at her, open-mouthed. Alistair was the first to recover.

" **The** Flemeth from the legends?" He didn't even try to hide his astonishment. His eyes narrowed. "Daveth was right; you're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?" he accused.

"And what does that mean?" snapped Flemeth. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

"I suppose we should thank you," said Fearghal.

"If you know what is good for you, I suppose you should," agreed Flemeth.

Fearghal looked at Flemeth curiously. "So why _did_ you save us?"

"Well, we cannot have all the Grey wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn. It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight," she told him, as if the answer was obvious. "Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

Fearghal snorted. "The land is hardly united, thanks to Loghain."

"That doesn't make any sense!" burst out Alistair. "Why would he do it?"

"Now _that_ is a good question," agreed Flemeth. She frowned. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmanoeuvre. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat. "

"The Archdemon," murmured Alistair.

"What could Loghain hope to gain by betraying the king?" asked Fearghal, still trying to make sense of Loghain's actions.

"The throne?" suggested Alistair. "He's the queen's father. Still, I can't see how he'll get away with murder."

"You speak as if he would be the first king to gain his throne that way. Grow up, boy!" scoffed Flemeth.

Alistair was angered by her obvious contempt. "If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would never stand for it!" he asserted. "The Landsmeet would never stand for it! There would be civil war!"

"You think the Arl would believe us over the Teyrn?" asked Fearghal. _Father always spoke respectfully about the Arl of Redcliffe._

"I suppose... Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar; he still has all his men. And he was Cailan's uncle. I know him. He's a good man, respected in the Landsmeet," Alistair looked at Fearghal. "We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help."

Fearghal frowned. "Not all nobles are honourable men," argued Fearghal. _Father always spoke respectfully of Arl Howe, too._ "Are there other allies we can call on?"

"Of course! The Treaties!" exclaimed Alistair excitedly. "The Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages and other places! They're obligated to help us during a Blight," he told Fearghal, who winced at his use of the word _us_.

Flemeth chuckled. "I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else... this sounds like an army to me."

"So can we do this?" demanded Alistair, his eyes shining. "Go to Redcliffe and these other places and build an army?"

"I doubt it will be that easy," growled Fearghal.

Flemeth laughed, a chilling sound that held no mirth. "And when is it ever?"

Alistair looked from a sceptical Fearghal to a smirking Flemeth, refusing to give up hope. "It's always been the Grey Wardens' duty to stand against a Blight." He pulled himself a little straighter. "And right now, we're the Grey Wardens," he declared proudly.

Fearghal groaned softly.

Flemeth smirked at Fearghal. "So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?"

"As ready as we'll ever be," sighed Fearghal grudgingly.

Flemeth opened the door to her hut, calling her daughter. As Morrigan came to the door, Flemeth informed her, "The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them."

Morrigan did not look pleased at the news. "What?"

"You heard me, girl," snapped Flemeth.

Fearghal cleared his throat. "Thank you, but if Morrigan doesn't wish to join us... "

"Her magic will be useful. Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde," stated Flemeth, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Fearghal had to admit she was right, Morrigan did sound useful.

"Have I no say in this?" demanded Morrigan indignantly.

Flemeth snorted dismissively. "You've been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance." She turned to Alistair and Fearghal. "As for you, Wardens, consider this payment for your lives."

Fearghal was astonished but could see no reason to refuse the offer. "Very well," he agreed, "we'll take her with us."

Alistair was less taken with the idea. "Not to... look a gift horse in the mouth, but won't this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

"If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower," replied Flemeth, obviously offended.

Alistair had the grace to look embarrassed. "Point taken," he muttered.

Fearghal rolled his eyes. _What_ _ **is**_ _his problem with mages?_

Morrigan tried to dissuade her mother, but Flemeth was adamant that the Grey Wardens would need Morrigan. Fearghal felt a little unnerved by her insistence. _What does she know that we don't. She isn't telling us everything._

Morrigan conceded defeat. "I... understand."

Flemeth turned back to Fearghal and Alistair. "And you, Wardens, do you understand? I give you that which I value above all else in this world. I do this because you _must_ succeed."

"She won't come to harm with us," Fearghal assured her. He quite liked Morrigan, in part because Alistair seemed to detest her.

Morrigan disappeared into the hut to pack her belongings and Flemeth followed her, leaving the two men outside.

"I was beginning to think you'd never wake up," remarked Alistair. "Sleep well?"

Fearghal scowled. "How long was I out for?"

"Three days," Alistair told him. He gave Fearghal an odd look. "Did you dream?" he asked.

Fearghal started to shake his head, then remembered. He _had_ dreamed; he'd dreamed of that awful night in Highever when Duncan had conscripted him. _And I dreamed of Rory... dreamed he was alive... it seemed so real, I could feel him holding me... but it was just a dream... Rory's dead_

Alistair suddenly felt ashamed of himself as he watched Fearghal lost in thought, a myriad of emotions playing across his face. The sudden pain in the man's eyes gave way to something else; a softer, more tender look. Alistair fidgeted and looked away as he recalled how, just for a moment, he had felt entirely comfortable in that fierce embrace. He flushed at the memory of that large hand caressing the back of his head so gently, the soft lips nuzzling at his neck. He looked back at Fearghal and was shocked to see the naked grief in his face. Fearghal seemed to look through him.

Alistair cleared his throat. "Er... your hound's around here somewhere."

Fearghal's eyes snapped back into focus. _Bane! I'd forgotten all about him!_ "Bane?" he demanded. "She rescued him too?"

Alistair shrugged. "I've no idea, but I've seen him lurking about nearby. I tried to coax him in, but he won't come near the hut. Every time he lays eyes on Flemeth he takes off again."

Fearghal pulled off his gauntlet and raised his finger and thumb to his mouth, whistling shrilly. His face lit up at an answering bark. He whistled again, the shrill sound making Alistair wince. Fearghal was knocked off his feet by the two-hundred pounds of damp, delighted mabari that launched itself at his chest. He lay on the ground, winded, laughing breathlessly as the dog writhed with joy on top of him, licking his face and neck enthusiastically. Still laughing, he struggled to push the dog off him.

"Maferath's balls, Bane! Get _off_ , you great lump!" Fearghal managed to shove the dog off him for long enough to stand up. Bane sat, gazing up adoringly at his master. Alistair watched in amusement, aware once more that a different man stood before him. _That hound is probably the only thing in Thedas that maniac cares about._

Behind them the door to the hut opened and Morrigan and Flemeth emerged. Bane stiffened, snarling. Fearghal placed a hand on his head to quiet him. The dog looked at Flemeth and whined, but stayed by his master. Flemeth shot the dog a look of dislike, but otherwise ignored him. Morrigan was holding two bundles. She tossed one to Fearghal and one to Alistair; her mother handed her a third bundle. Fearghal nodded his thanks.

Alistair stiffened. He glanced at Morrigan and then at Fearghal. "Look, is it really a good idea... I mean, do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?"

Fearghal's easy manner fled. "Oh, get over yourself, Alistair," he snapped. Gesturing to Bane, he strode off towards the path, his hound following closely.

Morrigan smirked at Alistair. "If you worry that I will summon demons and transform into an abomination, I assure you I will at least wait until you are not looking," she mocked.

Alistair scowled at her and marched stomped over to where Fearghal stood waiting.

They watched as Morrigan made a brief farewell to her mother and then walked after them.

"Where to?" asked Fearghal.

"I suggest we head north to Lothering. It's not far and you will find much you need there," suggested Morrigan. She glanced at Alistair, adding snidely, "Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide."

"No, I prefer you speak your mind," Fearghal told her, adding, "I don't promise to listen, though." He looked over at Alistair. "Anything you want to say?" he demanded.

Alistair scowled and shook his head.

"Lothering it is then," declared Fearghal.


	8. Chapter 8

Morrigan led the way through the Wilds, finding hidden paths and trails that Fearghal and Alistair would never have found on their own. Fearghal and Alistair followed in silence while Bane trotted ahead, sometimes with Morrigan, occasionally running back to the two men.

The atmosphere between the men was tense. Alistair glanced at Fearghal who seemed lost in his own thoughts. Alistair frowned; nothing about the man invited casual conversation. Several times he had found himself opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again.

He was surprised when Fearghal asked, out of the blue, "So how did you become a Grey Warden?"

Alistair glanced at his companion. The blue eyes were cool but there had been a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. He was also surprised that Duncan hadn't, at some point on their journey, explained that asking about a Warden's past just wasn't done, or maybe he had and Fearghal just didn't care about such courtesies. _Maker knows, he doesn't seem to care about anything else._

Irritated, Alistair replied sarcastically, "Same way you did. You drink some blood, you choke on it and pass out. You haven't forgotten already, have you?"

"If you don't want to answer, then say so," snapped Fearghal.

Alistair felt a small surge of triumph at having needled his companion. "Didn't Duncan tell you _anything_ about the Wardens on your way to Ostagar?"

Fearghal scowled. "I had other things on my mind. I wasn't exactly in the mood to listen."

Alistair raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting. "Well, it's an unwritten rule," he explained. "We don't ask about a Warden's past. Some are recruited, but others are conscripted. When a man joins the Wardens, he leaves his old life behind him. There are no family names, titles or anything like that."

Fearghal gave him an unreadable look at this information, then drawled, "I can't imagine that _you_ were conscripted, Alistair. You're far too _good_ , more of a Jory than a Daveth."

Alistair bridled at Fearghal's tone. "I was conscripted, actually," he said, gratified as Fearghal's eyes widened in surprise. "I was in the Chantry before. I was training to become a templar."

Fearghal rolled his eyes and groaned. "Just my luck, good _and_ religious."

"Hardly," snorted Alistair. "I was banished to the kitchens to scour the pots more times than I can count."

"So what did you do? Get one of the sisters pregnant?" asked Fearghal, grinning.

"What? N-no!" spluttered Alistair, blushing.

"Not caught in a closet with one of the brothers!" gasped Fearghal, feigning shock then chuckling as Alistair blushed an even deeper shade of red.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" burst out Alistair angrily. "I didn't _do_ anything!"

Fearghal burst out laughing. "Oh, I can believe that, Alistair!"

Alistair glared at Fearghal. "You shouldn't judge everyone by your standards," he growled.

Fearghal just laughed even harder. "Deflowering Chantry virgins has never been a challenge I've wanted to overcome," he told Alistair.

Fearghal eyed his companion, curiously. "Talking of which... if you were raised in the Chantry to be a templar, does that mean you've never... " Fearghal waggled his eyebrows and grinned. His eyes widened in shock as a thought struck him. "Maferath's balls, man! You haven't taken vows, have you?"

"No," Alistair assured him. "I managed to avoid the vows."

"So?" prompted Fearghal.

"So... what?" said Alistair, wishing the other man would just drop it.

"Have you ever... ?"

"Have I ever... seen a basilisk? Eaten jellied ham? Licked a lamppost in winter?" replied Alistair flippantly.

Fearghal chuckled, "Licked a lamppost... that has to be the coyest euphemism for it I've ever heard." He glanced across at Alistair, enjoying his embarrassment. "So, have you ever licked a lamppost?" he demanded.

"Have you?" Alistair shot back.

"Oh, many times," confirmed Fearghal, looking smug. "I've also ploughed the occasional furrow, but I definitely prefer lampposts."

Alistair was horrified as Fearghal's meaning dawned on him. "Y-you think I-I meant...?"

Fearghal looked at him quizzically.

"W-with men!" he continued, unthinkingly. "I'm not l _ike that_!" he protested.

Fearghal's face went flat. "Well, I am _like that_ ," he said coldly.

Alistair paled at the menace in Fearghal's voice. "I-I didn't mean... I just meant... for _me_ , I mean... "

"Don't worry, Alistair. Your virtue is quite safe with me. Like I said, Chantry virgins don't interest me... even when they're no longer in the Chantry." Fearghal lengthened his stride and caught up with Morrigan.

Alistair watched him walking with Morrigan. How had he managed to put his foot in it so badly? _'Because you were afraid he'd think you_ _ **were**_ _'like that'; because_ _ **you**_ _are afraid you are like that.'_ whispered a little voice in his head. Feeling utterly confused and miserable, Alistair followed Morrigan and Fearghal, a myriad of conflicting thoughts and emotions swirling around in his head.

He had felt so smug when they'd had talks from older templars about the vow of chastity they would take; about how it was important to keep their thoughts and their bodies pure, in the service of The Maker. While he sometimes would feel stirred by the sight of a pretty face, a shapely body, he'd never felt the powerful urges described by the other men as dominating their thoughts. And then he'd met Cullen.

 _Alistair lingered over his supper. It was Wednesday, which meant it was bath night; Alistair hated bath night. Every Wednesday night the boys in his year were herded into the large bath-house, a large stone building near the kitchen. Part of the bath-house was partitioned off into individual bathrooms that offered some privacy. They were reserved for those templars that had taken their vows. The boys bathed in a large communal bathroom containing twenty large tin baths; there was no privacy at all._

 _The problem wasn't the bathing; Alistair enjoyed lounging in a tub full of hot water as much as anyone else. No, the problem was getting undressed with the other boys. Even after all this time, they never got weary of tormenting him about it._ _**It** _ _being the fact that he was circumcised; a practice from an earlier age that was now only observed by the nobility._

 _When he could put it off no longer, Alistair, reluctantly pushed his empty plate aside, went to fetch his towel, soap and washcloth and headed out to the bath-house. He slipped into the communal bathroom as unobtrusively as he could and was dismayed to find that he'd lingered too long. All of the other boys had already undressed and got into their baths. He brightened a little, noting that many of them lolled back, eyes closed, enjoying the hot water. He found an empty peg on the wall and quickly started to strip his clothes off._

 _"Well, well, if it isn't Lord Alistair," said a sneering voice._

 _Alistair froze, flushing. "I've told you before, Makinson. I'm not a lord."_

 _"You've got a lord's cock!" chipped in one of the other boys, prompting an outbreak of sniggering._

 _Alistair shut his eyes briefly, flinching at the crude language, then carried on undressing._

 _"Yeah," agreed another lad. "If the Arl of Redcliffe really ain't yer old man, 'ow come you've 'ad yer cock cut?"_

 _Movement in the doorway caught Alistair's eye. He looked up and saw one of the older trainees in the doorway. Alistair groped for the name. Cullen. Alistair didn't know him well, only enough to put a name to the face. It wasn't usual for boys to bathe on the 'wrong' night, but it did happen occasionally. Cullen looked around the room at the bathing boys, then at Alistair. Alistair blushed; Cullen would have heard the hazing. Alistair fervently hoped he wouldn't join in._

 _Cullen nodded at Alistair, his face neutral. "Alistair, isn't it?"_

 _Before Alistair could reply, Makinson's voice jeered, "That's Lord Alistair to you, Cullen. Look at his dick!"_

 _Alistair groaned, wanting the floor to open and swallow him up. Cullen's eyes swept slowly down Alistair's body, down to Alistair's penis, then he looked over at Makinson. "That's a very dirty mouth you have there, Makinson. Brother Vincent will be along in a moment with water for another bath, and you know how the sound echoes in here. I'd shut up if I were you."_

 _Alistair shot a grateful look at Cullen then scuttled over to the remaining empty bath with hot water in it and stepped in, sitting down quickly and sinking back to lie in the warm water. He frowned. He definitely shouldn't have lingered so long at supper; the water wasn't as hot as usual. He lay back in the water, eyes half-closed, absently watching Cullen get undressed._

 _Cullen was tall for his age and starting to build up some solid muscles. He pulled his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and a muscular chest. Alistair felt his breath catch, suddenly entranced. The memory of Cullen's brown eyes looking over his body made him shiver. Cullen sat on the bench and removed his boots and socks, then stood and started to unlace his breeches. Something deep in Alistair's belly clenched in anticipation as long pale fingers tugged at the laces, then pulled the breeches down, small clothes and all._

 _Cullen turned and fussed with his clothes, straightening them and hanging them neatly on one of the pegs. Alistair studied his back, watching the muscles move under the skin as Cullen moved. The broad torso tapered to a slim waist and hips. Firm muscles bunched under taut buttocks. Long, solid legs, planted solidly like stone pillars. Alistair swallowed and felt himself harden._ _**Oh, Maker! Not now!** _ _If any of the other boys noticed, he'd never live it down. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else._

After that evening Alistair had found more and more often that he lay in bed at night, hand curled around his cock, pumping furiously, remembering how Cullen had looked, naked, in the bathroom. Hot ,sticky fluid would spurt across his hand, his belly, and Alistair would flush with shame; a shame tinged with desperate longing. Occasionally he would run into Cullen and the older boy was always pleasant, always acknowledged him with a smile and a nod; Alistair would blush furiously and make his escape as soon as he could.

Gradually he had pushed Cullen out of his mind. He had even stopped wanking, burying those physical urges and desires under training and meditation. On the rare occasion the ache overwhelmed him, refusing to be ignored, he dealt with it as mechanically as he could; refusing to indulge himself in the memories and images that hovered on the edge of his mind. By the time Duncan had recruited him this had become force of habit.

"Oof! Watch where you're going, fool!"

Alistair had been so lost in thought, staring down at the ground, he hadn't even noticed that Morrigan and Fearghal had stooped. He'd walked straight into Morrigan, almost knocking her over.

"S-sorry," he stammered.

Fearghal rolled his eyes at Alistair. "We were just talking about stopping for the night."

"Sure." Alistair shrugged. He looked up at the sky, which was darkening; he hadn't realised it was getting so late.

"Morrigan knows of a cave nearby."

Alistair nodded, suddenly weary. "That sounds good," he agreed.

Fearghal turned to follow Morrigan. "Try to pay attention and keep up," he snapped.

Alistair flushed and set off after them.


	9. Chapter 9

Morrigan led them on for about a further twenty minutes, then stopped. Ahead of them lay a small rocky hill.

"Over there," she said pointing.

Fearghal nodded and started walking again.

"Wait!" commanded Morrigan.

Fearghal stopped and turned. "What?" he asked, puzzled. He was tired and hungry, he just wanted to get somewhere he could settle down and rest.

"I will go and ensure that the cave is unoccupied," said Morrigan. "'Twould be unwise to disturb a drowsy bear, preparing for his winter's sleep."

Fearghal looked at her warily. "Surely, if that's a possibility, we should all go."

Morrigan laughed. "Truly, 'tis not necessary," she assured him.

Fearghal and Alistair gaped as Morrigan shimmered in front of their eyes and then disappeared. In front of them stood a large black wolf. Tawny eyes regarded them calmly. Bane yelped and jumped back. The hound regarded the wolf warily, then crept in and sniffed its muzzle cautiously. Bane was encouraged when the wolf sniffed him back. His tail started to wag. Growing more bold he moved behind it and thrust his nose at the wolf's backside, sniffing enthusiastically. The wolf whirled, snapping and snarling. Confused, Bane retreated and sat down, leaning against Fearghal's legs.

With a last look at them, the wolf loped off in the direction of the cave. Bane gazed longingly after it, whining.

Fearghal looked down at him. "Don't even think about it, you randy bastard," he warned sternly.

"Oh, Maker!" groaned Alistair. "That's just... just... so, so wrong!" He grimaced in disgust.

Fearghal shrugged. "I don't want her to kill my dog when she turns back into Morrigan, and I fancy she would if he tried to... "

"Yes, yes! I get the picture!" interrupted Alistair. "Please, can we talk about something else?"

Fearghal shrugged. _Maferath's balls! He's such a prude._ He stared in the direction the wolf had gone in. "I didn't know mages could do that," he remarked. "Turn into animals, I mean."

Alistair scowled. "They can't. Or at least, it's not something taught by the Circle, which means it's probably banned by the Chantry, like blood magic." He groaned and rubbed his face. "It's not bad enough that she's an apostate, she practices forbidden magic too."

"Maker's breath, Alistair! You're not a templar anymore," snapped Fearghal.

Alistair glowered at him, but refrained from saying anything further. _You might trust that witch, but I don't. Only a fool would._

Presently the wolf trotted back, shimmered briefly and then Morrigan stood in front of them once more.

"The cave is empty and quite safe," she told them. "It doesn't appear to have been used for a long time. It is a little... stale, but dry and we will be out of the wind."

"Let's go then." Fearghal swung his pack over his shoulder and headed off towards the cave.

The cave, when they reached it, was a little cramped but big enough to hold them. As Morrigan had promised, it was dry but had a fusty odour to it. They decided not to make a fire, partly because they were worried about attracting attention, partly because the ventilation in the cave was poor; Fearghal suspected their eyes would be smarting from the smoke all night if they lit a fire. Morrigan assured them that she could set wards in front of the entrance which would warn them in plenty of time if anything came near.

While Morrigan stepped outside, Fearghal and Alistair inspected their bundles. Each bundle was made up of a blanket tied around some food and a skin of water. The food consisted of dried meat, crackers and some very stale cheese. Alistair gazed disappointedly at the cheese. _I'd rather not have cheese at all, than this pale, tasteless stuff pretending to be cheese._ Bane plonked himself in front of Fearghal, slaver dripping from his chops and a hopeful look in his eye.

Fearghal regarded his dog steadily. "Not a chance," he muttered, tucking into his food hungrily. "Go and catch yourself some rabbits." Bane persisted, whining softly, until Fearghal nudge him away with his foot. "Go on," he said, pointing outside the cave. Bane cast a sorrowful look at him, then trotted out of the cave.

Fearghal ignored his dog and carried on eating. "How long did you say I was out for? Three days? It feels like I haven't eaten in a week." He was tempted to eat all the food they'd been given in one sitting, but decided he'd better save some for the morning.

Alistair smirked to himself, but said nothing, eating his food more slowly, trying to make it last. Morrigan returned and settled herself at the end of the small cave, as far away as from the two men as she could, and ate her own food quietly. As soon as she finished, she bade her companions good night, transformed into a wolf again and curled up to sleep.

Alistair and Fearghal both wrapped themselves up in their blankets and sat on the hard ground leaning against the wall. Presently, Bane returned and curled up between them. Both men were glad of the extra warmth he provided. As night fell, the cave was almost pitch black.

Fearghal leaned his head back, trying to get comfortable. He could hear Alistair shuffling about slightly over Bane's soft snoring, obviously still awake and uncomfortable too.

"You know the Arl of Redcliffe well?" he asked softly.

"I grew up in Redcliffe, until I was sent to the Chantry anyway," replied Alistair.

"That doesn't mean you know him, never mind know him well," countered Fearghal.

Alistair sighed, Fearghal could sense his hesitation. "Let's see. How do I explain this?"

"Oh, just spit it out, Alistair," groaned Fearghal. _What could be so bad?_

"I'm a bastard," announced Alistair. "And before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind."

"I see," said Fearghal. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that he could understand Alistair's reticence.

"My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle. She died when I was born. Arl Eamon wasn't my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head," explained Alistair.

Fearghal was grateful for the darkness in the cave; that Alistair wouldn't see the scepticism he knew was on his face.

"He was good to me and he didn't have to be," Alistair went on. "I respect the man and I don't blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

"But you blamed him at the time?" asked Fearghal.

Haltingly Alistair explained about how the Arl's young Orlesian wife had resented him; resented the whispers that he was really the Arl's son. Almost talking to himself in the dark of the cave, he gave voice to the hurt and anger he'd felt when Arl Eamon had shipped him off to the Chantry. Fearghal had heard his mother speak of the Arlessa. The Teyrna hadn't had a very high opinion of the Arlessa, and it wasn't because she was Orlesian.

"So I was packed off to the nearest monastery at age ten," continued Alistair, matter-of-factly. "Just as well, really. The Arlessa had made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me."

Fearghal wasn't sure how to respond. He couldn't imagine his own mother behaving so spitefully towards a child, no matter what his background or circumstances. He felt a tug of sympathy for the boy that Alistair must have been. On the other hand, the man he was now got right up his nose.

"You were probably luckier than most orphans," he grunted.

"I suppose you're right," conceded Alistair. "I wasn't raised as the Arl's son, or anything." He chuckled softly. "I slept in hay out in the stables, not on silk sheets."

Fearghal snorted. He'd never slept on silk sheets either, except in high-class brothels, his family's castle had always had crisp linen sheets.

Alistair's voice grew quiet and pensive. "I remember I had an amulet with Andraste's holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother's..."

Fearghal felt a stab of pain. _I have nothing of Mother's. Nothing to remember Father by, or Fergus. No little thing of Oren's. Nothing to hold that will conjure up the presence of my Rory. Nothing but memories, a shield and a blade._ Fearghal pushed the thought away. Memories hurt too much; for now the shield and the blade were all he needed.

"... I was so furious at being sent away, I tore if off and threw it at the wall and it shattered." Alistair's voice was full of regret. "A stupid, stupid thing to do." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Anyway, the Arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything... and eventually he stopped coming."

Fearghal squirmed uncomfortably. When he'd asked how well Alistair knew the Arl, he hadn't expected Alistair's life story. He didn't quite know what to say.

"So, do you think the Arl will help us?" he asked gruffly.

"All I know is that the Arl is a good man," replied Alistair, embarrassed that he'd told this strange man so much about himself and regretting it already. The words had just spilled out of him, the darkness creating an illusion of intimacy. "He's well-loved by the people. He was also King Cailan's uncle, so he has a personal motive to see Loghain pay for what he did."

"You know, I've been thinking about that," said Fearghal.

"Thinking about what?" asked Alistair, puzzled.

"Loghain," Fearghal replied.

"And... ?"

"We _were_ late lighting the beacon," said Fearghal. He shrugged in the dark. "Maybe... maybe we were _too_ late."

"What?" exploded Alistair. "You _saw_! He _could_ have charged. It _would_ have turned the battle."

From the back of the cave came an annoyed growl.

"It would have been close," said Fearghal, his voice low.

Alistair gave a snort of obvious disgust.

"It _would_ have been," insisted Fearghal "And Loghain had a different viewpoint from us, it might have looked less... clear cut from where he was."

"Well, why didn't he charge sooner? Why wait for the damned beacon at all, if it looked so bad?"

Fearghal rubbed his face tiredly and sighed. "I don't know. I'm no general." He paused, to gather his thoughts. "But Loghain _is_ a general, a great general, and all I'm trying to say is that maybe we shouldn't jump to conclusions. All the things you've said about Arl Eamon could all be said about Teyrn Loghain. He's popular with the people and also respected in the Landsmeet, or at least by those nobles that aren't still harping on about him being born a commoner."

"He left the king to die, he abandoned him," muttered Alistair stubbornly.

"The king should never have been down there in the first place!" hissed Fearghal. He groaned softly. "Look, all I'm saying is that we should keep an open mind. Let's get to this village and see if we can find out more."

There was a flicker at the end of the cave and Morrigan's voice cut through the darkness. "Would you two be quiet!" she snapped furiously.

Fearghal and Alistair muttered their apologies and the air shimmered again. They briefly heard the skittering of claws on the floor of the cave as she settled herself back down. The two Wardens pulled their blankets tight around them and settled into an uneasy sleep.

~o~O~o~

Alistair and Fearghal trudged after Morrigan and Bane, both men left tired and irritable after a restless night of little more than cat-naps in the uncomfortable cave. Fearghal mentally made a list of supplies they would need from Lothering. Mostly they would need camping equipment, but also proper packs and various paraphernalia for looking after their armour and weapons. He patted the purse he could feel tucked into his armour and silently thanked his mother for her foresight. At least they weren't completely destitute.

The cave had been nearer to the old Imperial Highway than Fearghal had realised and the going was certainly easier once they reached it. There were fewer travellers around than Fearghal expected. He'd anticipated more refugees fleeing the darkspawn; possibly other survivors from Ostagar. _I suppose most people must have already started to move while we were at Flemeth's hut in the Wilds._

The Highway crested a hill and below them lay Lothering, at the side of the great stone viaduct that bore the Highway to the far side of the dale. Lothering itself wasn't very big but it was surrounded by a substantial makeshift camp of tents, wagons and temporary, hastily built lean-tos.

Alistair whistled softly. "Maker's breath! Look at all those people," he marvelled.

"Let's hope they haven't bought up all the supplies. I bet prices have gone through the roof," groaned Fearghal.

"Oh, very sympathetic!" sneered Alistair. "You're all heart. I supposed I shouldn't have expected anything else from you."

Fearghal scowled at him. "I'm just trying to be practical," he snapped. "We have little more than what we stand up in and we could be on the road for months. Unless you know of some secret Warden cache where we can supply, we're going to have to buy what we need down there." He jerked his head towards the village. "Just how much money do you have, Alistair?"

Alistair flushed. "About forty silver," he mumbled.

"I bet you'll be lucky if that gets you much more than a bowl of stew and a pint of ale at the tavern," scoffed Fearghal. He sighed, struggling to regain control of his temper. "I have about twenty sovereigns. Hopefully, it will be enough to get the things we need. Maker knows what we'll do when it's gone." He shook his head and started down the hill. _We'll cross that bridge when we get to it._

As they walked along the viaduct, they were accosted by 'toll collectors'.

 _'Parasites,'_ thought Fearghal in disgust, _'preying on the weak and scared.'_ Alistair's words up on the hill had stung him more than he cared to admit. His parents had brought him up to take responsibility for their people; to oversee, to organise; to _care_. He wondered what was happening in Highever; were the people running scared, driven from their homes by Howe?

When the bandit leader brazenly demanded the ten-silver toll, Fearghal smashed a gauntleted fist into his face. He didn't notice when the other bandits drew their weapons or when Alistair, Bane and Morrigan leaped to his defence. All Fearghal could see was the bandit leader's sneering face dissolving into a satisfyingly, bloody pulpy mess as he drove his fist into it again and again. When the man fell over, Fearghal hauled him up and knocked him down again. Once, twice, three times. Fearghal, hauled the bandit up again and drew his fist back. Strong hands grasped his arms, a furious voice shouting in his ear, "Maker's breath! Stop! He's dead. He's _dead_!"

Fearghal struggled furiously, howling incoherently, as the man fell out of his grasp and he was dragged back.

Alistair wrestled Fearghal away from the bloodied corpse of the bandit leader, throwing a desperate glance at Morrigan. Morrigan gestured at Fearghal and he was coated from head to toe in a thin layer of frost. Not enough to freeze him, by any means, but enough to bring him sharply back to reality. Alistair felt Fearghal stiffen in shock, then sag slightly in his arms. Horrified by what he had just witnessed, Alistair let go of the other man and stepped away. There was a long uncomfortable silence, then Fearghal headed down the ramp towards the village, Bane at his heel. Morrigan cast an amused look at Alistair and followed. Alistair stared after the pair of them; he was tempted to just head across the viaduct and keep on going. _A maniac Warden and a witch who seems think it's amusing when he beats a man to death._ Reluctantly he headed down the ramp.


	10. Chapter 10

Fearghal and Morrigan were waiting for him at the edge of the refugee camp.

"So, what's the plan?" Alistair asked tersely, glaring at Fearghal.

Fearghal's eyes were hard. They glanced at Alistair before looking past him at the swarm of refugees. He shrugged. "I don't know. We need supplies and we need to find out what's going on. We might be better splitting... "

Fearghal's eyes widened as he gazed over Alistair's shoulder. "Wait here," he muttered, pushing past Alistair and setting off, almost at a run.

Alistair spun round and saw Fearghal weaving through the refugees.

"Bennet! Bennet!" called Fearghal.

Alistair and Morrigan watched as a huge man in battered armour spun at the sound of Fearghal's voice, a look of shock giving way to joy.

Fearghal could hardly believe his eyes as he looked at the Highever man he had know for most of his life.

Bennet beamed at him. "Lord Fearghal!"

Fearghal frowned. "Lord no longer, Bennet. I'm a Grey Warden now. It's just Fearghal... or Warden Fearghal, if you insist."

Bennet looked puzzled. "A Grey Warden? But... I thought you were to stay at Highever."

Fearghal's face fell. "Let's go somewhere quieter to talk. There are too many people around here."

Fearghal led the way to the edge of the camp. Looking around to make sure they weren't overheard, he turned to face Bennet. Steeling himself, he told Bennet what had happened at Castle Cousland.

Bennet stared at him in shock. "I-I don't know what to say, m'lord. It seems so..." He stopped, lost for words.

Fearghal nodded stiffly, struggling to stifle the pain that welled up inside him. He gave the Bennet a moment to take in what he'd told him, then asked him hopefully, "What news of Fergus? I was told at Ostagar that he'd been sent out with a scouting party... "

Fearghal felt something inside him die at the look on Bennet's face. "Oh, m'lord... "

"What happened?" whispered Fearghal, the words almost choking him.

Bennet blinked back tears and cleared his throat. "W-we were out scouting, like you said, Lord Fearghal. We knew where the main horde was supposed to be but a large party must have split off... we almost fell over them." He rubbed his hand over his face. "It was chaos. There were darkspawn everywhere. We were badly outnumbered and... " he trailed off, then tried again. "I didn't see what happened to Lord Fergus, I lost track of him. I managed to get away and started heading back to Ostagar, then I started meeting the occasional soldier who survived _that_ mess." He shrugged tiredly. "I haven't seen any other Highever men," he admitted reluctantly.

Fearghal turned away, blinking, his eyes stinging with tears. When he'd regained control of his emotions, he turned back to Bennet.

"What happened at Ostagar, Lord Fearghal?" asked Bennet quietly. "I've heard all sorts of wild tales."

Fearghal sighed. "We... myself and another Warden, were to light a signal beacon for Loghain," he explained. "When we got there, the place was overrun with darkspawn and it took too long to get the beacon lit. We were late and Loghain withdrew his men."

Bennet frowned. "Beg pardon, m'lord," he said tentatively, "but that's not the story being put about."

"What do you mean?"

Bennet shifted uncomfortably. "Word in Lothering is that Loghain says the Grey Wardens betrayed the king. He's declared himself Regent."

"That's a filthy lie!" Fearghal exclaimed.

Bennet held his hands up. "I don't doubt you, m'lord. There's lots of folks that don't believe it, but that's what Loghain is saying. You'll need to take care in Lothering. There's a bounty offered for any surviving Grey Wardens and enough folk here desperate enough to try and collect it."

Fearghal nodded thoughtfully. "What are your plans?" he asked.

Bennet shrugged. "I don't rightly know, m'lord. I was planning to head home, but now... "

"I'm travelling with another Warden and a wi... mage. Why don't you join us for now? Just in case we run into trouble in the village."

Bennet nodded, cheered at the prospect of being under his lord's command again.

"Remember what I said, Bennet. I'm just Fearghal now. Loghain might not be the only one looking for me. No more 'm'lord' or 'Lord Fearghal'."

"I understand, m'l... Fearghal." Bennet smiled at Fearghal sheepishly.

"By the way, the mage is a hedge witch, an apostate. Don't broadcast the fact, we don't want the templars down on us as well."

Bennet nodded, eyes wide.

Fearghal looked over to where Alistair and Morrigan stood, watching and waiting. He raised his arm and beckoned them over. When they joined him he made introductions.

"This is Bennet, an old friend of mine. Bennet, this is Alistair and Morrigan."

Alistair craned his head back to look up at the mountainous man who stood before him, the stranger's face friendly and open. Warily he extended his arm and tried not to wince when a huge hand clasped his wrist in a crushing grip.

Bennet nodded, his smile friendly. "Well met, ser Alistair." He glanced across at Morrigan, obviously trying not to stare. "Miss." Bennet bobbed his head at Morrigan then hastily averted his eyes.

In turn, Alistair tried not to stare at Fearghal's friend. He'd never seen anyone so big in his life. The man was almost seven feet tall and nearly as broad as he was tall. Short, grey hair covered his head, his eyes were light blue and calm. Alistair had never felt small before; it was an odd sensation. _A friend of Fearghal's, eh? He seems remarkably sane._

Quickly, Fearghal related the news that Bennet was told him. Alistair was, predictably, outraged to hear that the Grey Wardens had been accused of betraying King Cailan by Loghain. They decided to look round Lothering and pick up supplies. Bennet went and retrieved a well-worn pack. It hung limply in his big hand.

"Spare shirt and a pair of boots," he said with a shrug.

Fearghal laughed. "That's more than we have right now!"

Alistair watched as Fearghal and Bennet led the way. They didn't say much but were obviously comfortable with each other. His eyes wandered over the huge two-handed sword that hung down Bennet's back. The symbol engraved on the pommel was the same as the device on Fearghal's shield. They came to a halt once in the village proper, trying to get their bearings. A small boy by the bridge tapped Fearghal on the leg.

It was almost comical, Alistair thought, how Fearghal's head swivelled round in surprise, then down at the small boy.

"Have you seen my mother?" asked the boy.

That Fearghal would crouch down to the boy's level and patiently coax his story out of him wasn't what Alistair expected at all, but it was what Fearghal did. Alistair _expected_ him to growl at the boy and send him off with a flea in his ear. He watched bewildered. This was the same man who'd beaten a bandit to death not an hour before. As Fearghal advised the boy to go to the Chantry, Alistair cast a surreptitious glance at Bennet. The big man listened intently to the conversation but seemed unsurprised by it.

Fearghal stood and watched the boy walk to the Chantry then turned and headed to a nearby merchant. The merchant was engaged in a heated debate with one of the Chantry sister's, who seemed to be accusing him of profiteering. The merchant angrily justified his actions. Alistair stiffened as Fearghal and watched the argument, his arms crossed across his chest.

The merchant spied Fearghal watching him. "Ho! You there! You look able! Would you care to make a tiny profit helping a beleaguered businessman," he offered.

"Is your profiteering ruffling some feathers?" asked Fearghal, his voice calm but cold.

Alistair couldn't see Fearghal's face, but the merchant obviously could.

"You could say that, yes," he allowed grudgingly, shuffling nervously.

Alistair was relieved when Fearghal mediated the dispute without resorting to violence.

"Fine, fine. Done," said the merchant, throwing up his hands. He glared at Fearghal. "And since you don't look too needy, normal prices for you."

Fearghal threw back his head and laughed. "So long as they _are_ normal prices."

Fearghal suggested that Alistair and Bennet see if there was any work on the Chantry board and headed round the back of the cart with the merchant, reeling off a long list of supplies.

"Well," said Alistair cheerfully. "No-one died. That's an improvement."

Bennet looked at him oddly. "Eh?"

"He beat the last robber we met do death," Alistair told him.

Obviously shocked, Bennet looked across at Fearghal.

Alistair decided to follow a hunch. "You're from Highever too?"

Bennet nodded absently, frowning.

"You know Fearghal well then," said Alistair. It was more of a statement than a question.

"You could say that," agreed Bennet, look back at Alistair, his eyes troubled. "Known him since he was knee-high to a grasshopper." He looked back at Alistair. "You say he beat a man to death?" he asked, obviously finding it hard to believe. "Are you sure?"

"Am-am I sure?" spluttered Alistair. "Seeing as I had to pull him off the bloody corpse he was still smashing his mailed fist into, yes, I'm sure."

Bennet shook his head and turned to examine the chanter's board. "That's not the man I know," he muttered.

"Well, I've only known him a few days but it doesn't seem... out of character," Alistair replied.

Bennet gave him a sideways look. "Grief takes men different ways," he said cryptically.

"Don't I know it." Alistair's tone was bitter.

Bennet looked at the younger man sympathetically and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I reckon we've all lost a lot these last few days."

Alistair nodded miserably.

Bennet hesitated, then lowered his voice. "I dunno if I should tell you this... I just had to tell him that his brother's missing, probably dead."

Alistair groaned quietly, then nodded. "Thanks for the warning."

Both men jumped guiltily when Fearghal's voice sounded behind them. "Come on, you two, you can help pack this lot up. Anything interesting on the board?"

"More bandits," said Alistair, coldly.

Fearghal peered over his shoulder. "Good coin. It'll be useful."

Bennet shrugged at Alistair and followed Fearghal to where Morrigan and Bane waited next to an alarmingly large pile of supplies. Bennet quickly stowed the gear neatly and efficiently into the three packs that Fearghal had purchased and his own. Alistair watched, impressed; the man was obviously very experienced.

Once the gear was packed, Fearghal hefted one onto his shoulder and set off back to the refugee camp. Alistair picked up another pack and was amused when Bennet picked up the other two. Morrigan looked slightly irritated, but not enough to insist on carrying the heavy pack herself. Fearghal led the way to a quiet corner of the camp.

"I think we should leave the gear here with one of us to guard it, while the rest of us look around and sort out Lothering's bandit problem."

"Well, if you're planning on beating them to death, then I volunteer to guard the gear," said Alistair disgustedly.

Fearghal glared at him, flushing slightly. "I was going to suggest that Morrigan stayed behind."

"What?" exclaimed Morrigan indignantly.

"One of the templars stationed at the Chantry kept staring at you, I think it's best if you stay as much out of their sight as possible," explained Fearghal.

"Templars!" scoffed Morrigan. "I do not fear those Chantry fools."

Fearghal smirked at Alistair. "I daresay you don't; however, we want to attract as little attention as possible."

Grudgingly, Morrigan agreed to stay with their newly acquired supplies. Fearghal offered her Bane, an offer that was refused with disdain. Fearghal, Alistair, Bennet and Bane headed out to look for bandits, which they found aplenty. On the whole, the bandits seemed to be ill-equipped, desperate men preying on those even weaker than themselves. Alistair was impressed with Bennet; he wielded his huge two-hander with skill and ease. The three men fought well together; Fearghal's shoulders relaxed and his customary scowl disappeared. Although Fearghal and Bennet didn't speak much, it was a comfortable, companionable silence and not one that Alistair felt compelled to fill.

They came to a farmhold, seemingly abandoned.

Fearghal looked round. "I wonder if this was where that boy was from? Let's have a look around."

Fearghal entered the house and Alistair and Bennet searched the outbuildings and barn but there was no sign of anyone alive or dead.

They met up outside. "The house has been ransacked," Fearghal told them. He sighed. "Let's head back down to the village."

Slowly they made their way back down to Lothering. As they neared the village, a small flash of colour in a clump of trees caught Alistair's eye.

"Look! Over there," he said, pointing.

As they neared the trees, they could make out the body of a woman. Her drab dress had been pulled up around her hips, exposing white legs; bright red hair spilled across the green grass.

Alistair heard Fearghal gasp and looked across. He was startled to see Fearghal looked ashen. Perspiration beaded his forehead and he looked as if he was about to be sick.

Bennet turned Fearghal around and gave him a little push back towards the lane. "We'll see to her, lad. Go on, we'll catch you up shortly."

Fearghal nodded absently and lurched back towards the lane, Bane following him anxiously. Alistair followed the big man to the trees, his own stomach lurching. The woman was laid on her back, empty eyes staring up at the sky. Her throat had been cut and dark, clotting blood had pooled around her body.

Bennet sighed sadly. "Some men are evil bastards, right enough," he said pulling the dress down to cover her legs. "Least we can do is make her decent until the Chantry sends someone up to fetch her."

Alistair looked away, embarrassed. He turned back in time to see Bennet slip her wedding ring off her finger. "What are you doing?" he demanded furiously.

"For the boy," he explained. "Something to remember his mam by." As he rose, his face darkened. "Why? Did you think I was..."

"I'm sorry," said Alistair. "It was stupid of me, I didn't think."

"Hmmph! Well, maybe you'd better start, boy," retorted Bennet shortly.

Alistair nodded miserably.

Together they headed down to where Fearghal waited on the lane. By the time they reached him his colour was better.

"All sorted. Got her wedding ring; for the boy," Bennet told him, with a dark look at Alistair.

As they headed down into Lothering, Fearghal's shoulders were tense, one fist clenched around the hilt of his sword.


	11. Chapter 11

The mood was sombre and downcast as Fearghal, Alistair and Bennet reached the village. As they neared the tavern Bennet stopped.

"I reckon we could all do with a pint. You two lads go in and fight your way to the bar, I'll go to the Chantry and see the boy; give him his mam's ring. I'll let the sisters know about her and tell them we dealt with the bandits."

"Don't be long," Fearghal told him tersely, heading to the tavern and pushing the door open.

As they entered, some men were just coming out. They nodded at the two Wardens on their way past. Alistair quickly bagged the table they'd just vacated while Fearghal headed to the bar. Bane settled himself unobtrusively under the table.

Presently, Fearghal rejoined Alistair, carefully carrying three pints of ale. He set them down, pushing one towards Alistair, then sat down and picked up one of the other tankards, drinking deeply.

Alistair sipped his ale more cautiously; he didn't have much of a head for ale, or any alcohol for that matter. "Bennet seems like a good sort," he ventured.

Fearghal nodded and set his tankard down. "He is. Salt of the earth, as they say," he confirmed. He grinned suddenly. "You should see his wife, she's a tiny little thing; barely comes up past his elbow." He chuckled. "The fastest way to get a seat at our local was to tell Bennet his wife was looking for him; that way two men could sit down."

Alistair smiled. "Will he come with us or head home, do you think?"

Fearghal shrugged, his good humour vanishing. "I don't know. Probably best if he heads home. Family man and all that."

Alistair shuffled uncomfortably. He found Fearghal's rapidly shifting moods difficult to deal with and he was relieved when Bennet joined them a couple of minutes later.

"All sorted?" asked Fearghal.

Bennet nodded and sat down, making the chair creak ominously. "Poor little bugger. From the sounds of it, they're not from around here, so he's got no-one." Bennet picked up his tankard and drained it on one go. "Maker! I needed that! Anyway, the sister told me that his Dad and brother turned up dead at a neighbour's farm yesterday."

"There's a lot of it about," muttered Fearghal.

Bennet looked apologetic. "Yeah, well... they said they'd look after him."

Alistair grimaced. _Another templar or brother for the Chantry._ He caught Fearghal looking at him and flushed. He _really_ regretted saying so much about himself the previous night.

Fearghal looked as if he was about to say something, then thought better of it. He picked up his tankard and drained it. Standing, he collected Bennet's empty tankard and then peered into Alistair's tankard, which was still more than half full.

"You need to keep up," he observed. "Same again, Bennet?"

Bennet grinned." Aye... and leave the lad alone. Not everyone grew up running up a tab in the local tavern."

Fearghal grinned. "Hey! I wasn't that bad."

"No? I had to carry you back up that hill enough times; I'd beg to differ," argued Bennet amiably. He grinned across at Alistair. "I remember this one time... "

"Well! Look what we have here, men. I think we've just been blessed!" exclaimed a loud voice, cutting across the banter.

"Uh-oh. Loghain's men. This can't be good," murmured Alistair, noting the device on the man's armour.

Fearghal turned and faced the soldier, a thuggish-looking fellow, who was smirking at him. The man was flanked by at least four others.

The soldier turned to one of his comrades.

"Haven't we spent all day asking about a fellow by this very description? And everyone said they hadn't seen him?" he asked.

"It seems we were lied to," sneered his weasel-faced comrade.

Both sides were astonished when a red-haired Chantry sister tried to intervene.

"Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble." She smiled sweetly at the soldier confronting Fearghal. "These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge." Although fluent, her Fereldan was strangely accented.

"They're more than that. Now stay out of our way, Sister," he threatened. "You protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them."

Alistair groaned inwardly as a dangerous smile spread over Fearghal's face. "It looks like he wants a fight. I'm happy to oblige," he said, his voice _eager_.

Bennet was already getting to his feet, his face impassive, and Alistair followed suit.

The soldier regarded them warily. "Right! Let's make this quick!" he snarled.

Fearghal hurled the tankards at the men in front of him. Instinctively they ducked, which gave him a moment to grab his shield off his back and draw his sword. With a savage roar that was becoming familiar to Alistair, Fearghal swung his shield. Patrons scattered as Bennet swung the massive two-handed sword off his back and waded into the fray. Alistair thrust his own shield at another soldier, pushing his weight behind it, trying to gain the advantage. The table they'd been sitting at tipped over as Bane launched himself out from underneath, scattering chairs as he went. Alistair peered over his shield. Two soldiers had retreated to the corner of the room and were raising crossbows. One disappeared from view as Bane leaped at his throat; the other sunk to the floor as a dagger slashed across his throat. Alistair was startled to see the red-haired Chantry sister standing behind him.

In moments, the thuggish soldier was pleading for their lives.

"We surrender!" he yelled. He and his remaining companion threw down their weapons.

Fearghal paused as the Chantry sister, her robes spattered with blood, appeared at his side. "Good," she announced happily. "They've learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now."

"I don't want them reporting to Loghain," growled Fearghal.

"Please! Wait!" yelped the soldier.

"They have surrendered! They were no match for you! Let them be!" insisted the sister.

"They were going to kill us!" protested Fearghal angrily.

The sister was unflinching. Alistair had to admire her nerve. He glanced across at Bennet; he was watching Fearghal, his face worried.

The sister held her ground. "But they failed, and I do not wish death on anyone."

Fearghal's sword flashed and took the man's head from his shoulders. "But I do," he growled.

Alistair heard Bennet gasp and looked across to see the shock on the big man's face. _Not shock at the death; he's seen enough of that. Shocked that Fearghal would kill a man who had surrendered. Has he changed so much from the man that Bennet knew?_

Alistair looked at the remaining soldier, the man he'd been fighting. He saw him gulp, his eyes big with fear as Fearghal turned to him. Before he'd even thought about what he was doing, Alistair stepped in front of the quaking soldier.

"You're going to have to get through me to get to him. I will _not_ let you do this." Alistair was surprised at how firm his own voice sounded.

"Get out of my way, Chantry boy." Fearghal's eyes narrowed dangerously. Alistair could see the resolution, the anger, in them; Fearghal would quite cheerfully fight him to get to the unarmed man behind him.

Alistair saw Fearghal tense and readied himself. He was startled when Bennet landed a huge hand on Fearghal's shield arm, gripping it tight.

"The lad's right, m'lo... Fearghal," said Bennet.

Alistair never took his eyes off Fearghal, who glared back at him.

Bennet's voice was low but firm. "Your father would weep to see you do this. He was an honourable man; he taught _you_ to be an honourable man."

Fearghal went white. He twisted in the big man's grasp and looked up at Bennet. "You bastard!" he breathed. "My father was murdered by a man he considered his best friend; also an _honourable_ man." His face twisted in contempt. "Where did his honour get him, Bennet?" His voice rose, shaking with rage. "Our _King_ is dead, murdered by his own father-in-law; another _honourable_ man!" He jerked his arm free and glared up at Bennet. "I've had a bellyful of honour."

Alistair felt a flash of sympathy for Bennet as he met Fearghal's glare, the sorrow plain in his face.

"Do what you like with him," snarled Fearghal, then stormed out of the tavern, his hound in his wake.

Alistair heard a sigh of relief behind him and whirled on the soldier, who flinched.

"You. I want you to take a message to Loghain," he growled.

The man nodded, his head bobbing up and down rapidly.

"Tell him that the Wardens _know_ what happened at Ostagar; that one of these days, we're going to make him pay."

"Yes, ser. I'll tell him," the man squeaked. As Alistair stepped back, he turned and fled.

Alistair looked up at Bennet. "We'd better go."

Bennet nodded and headed for the door.

The red-haired sister watched them leave.

When Alistair and Bennet made their way back to Morrigan there was no sign of Fearghal or Bane. Morrigan had got a fire going and a pot of stew was simmering over it.

Morrigan glanced at Alistair. "You appear to have mislaid your fellow-Warden, Alistair."

Alistair scowled at her. "He's mislaid himself."

Bennet stepped in at Morrigan's quizzical look. "We had a bit of... an altercation, ran into some of Loghain's men. Happen Fearghal's gone off on his own for a bit. He usually does when his temper's up. He'll be back when he's calmed down."

"Well, let's hope he doesn't kill anyone in the meantime," Alistair muttered snidely.

Bennet frowned at him, but didn't say anything. Instead he turned his attention to the stew pot. "That smells good, lass. Is it ready for eating?" When Morrigan nodded, Bennet retrieved some plates and spoons and dished up stew for the three of them.

They sat eating quietly. Alistair looked up at the sky. It was going to be dark soon. He'd assumed that they would leave Lothering before nightfall but if they didn't go soon, it would be too late. He really didn't want to linger after the trouble with Loghain's men. Once their meal was complete, Alistair gathered up the dishes and headed over to the small stream nearby to wash them.

As he headed back towards the others, he spotted Fearghal meandering unsteadily towards the fire. They arrived at the same time.

He looked pointedly at the bottle in Fearghal's hand, then back up at his face. "Great! That's just great. I suppose that means we're staying the night here?" The light was fading fast.

"Don't get your small clothes in a bunch, Chantry boy," slurred Fearghal. He swayed and sat down suddenly, staring morosely into the fire.

Bennet shook his head, then started rifling through packs and retrieving tents.

Fearghal looked up. "He only had three."

Alistair looked at him in confusion. "Three what?"

"Tents," said Fearghal carefully, swigging from the bottle. "Got fuh-four bedrolls though." Fearghal looked down at the bottle, frowning.

Bennet looked across at Alistair, his lips twitching. "You know how to put up a tent, lad?"

Alistair looked doubtful. "Well, sort of. I've not seen tents quite like this before though."

"There's nowt to it, once you get the hang of it," Bennet reassured him, then proceeded to set up the first tent, explaining what he was doing and why. He helped Alistair erect the second tent and then left him to set up the third. Bennet grabbed the bedrolls and unrolled one in the first tent, one in the second and two in the third. Alistair watched him, he had a bad feeling about this.

"Er...how are we... ?" Alistair waved vaguely at the tents.

"I reckon the lass in one, me in another and you and him in the third," said Bennet jerking his head at Fearghal.

Seeing the look on Alistair's face, he apologised. "Sorry lad,, but I don't reckon there'd be enough room in with me."

By the fire, Fearghal giggled. "You don' wanna share wi' Bennet. He farts." His face went solemn when Bennet snorted. "You do," he asserted, nodding. "Revie tol' me so!"

Bennet laughed. "Well you snore! And I know because Gilmore told me so!" He froze as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Alistair started at the name. _Gilmore. That was the name that Duncan had mentioned; Ser Gilmore was the knight he was going to test._

Fearghal had gone tense at Bennet's mention of the name.

Bennet looked uncomfortable. "Sorry, Fearghal, I didn't think."

Fearghal waved off the apology. "Forget it." he mumbled. He raised the bottle to his lips, gulping down the contents.

"Er... excuse me." No one had noticed the sister drawing closer to the fire.

Alistair recognised her as the red-head that had helped them when Loghain's men had attacked. Fearghal swivelled his head and blinked up at her. When he tried and failed to stand, Bennet stepped behind him and hauled him to his feet roughly.

The sister smiled at Fearghal uncertainly. "I apologize for interfering earlier, but I couldn't just sit by and not help."

"Tha's alright." Fearghal swayed, peering at her, trying to focus. "Wh-where's a sister learn to fight like that, anyway."

"I wasn't born in the Chantry, you know," she told him primly. "Many of us had more... colourful lives before we joined."

"I bet." Fearghal leered at her.

Bennet frowned "Behave, Fearghal," he growled and swatted Fearghal's head. Fearghal swayed alarmingly, even though the blow was light. He stayed on his feet, but only because Bennet was holding onto his belt with his other hand.

The sister frowned, then continued, "Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering. Or I was."

"I am Fearghal. A pleasure, m'lady." Fearghal bowed so low that he had trouble straightening up again until Bennet pulled him up straight.

Alistair rolled his eyes, groaning. _It's like watching a bizarre puppet show!_ Not for the first time that day, he was grateful for the big man's presence.

"Those men said you were a Grey Warden. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do?"

Fearghal nodded, his eyes crossing slightly at the motion.

"I know after what happened, you'll need all the help you can get. That's why I'd like to come with you," said the sister earnestly.

"Why so eager to come with us?" asked Alistair, his curiosity aroused by this strange sister.

The sister hesitated, then replied, "The Maker told me to."

Fearghal burst out laughing. He clung on to Bennet. "The Maker..." His legs buckled and Bennet hoisted him back up. "told her to..." he gasped, laughing so hard tears ran down his face. Fearghal clutched his belly, still laughing and started to slide down Bennet again.

In spite of Alistair's intense dislike of Fearghal, he found his lips twitching; Fearghal's genuine mirth was hard to resist.

Bennet's big hand clutched the back of Fearghal's armour and lifted him again until he dangled above the ground. The big man shook him gently. "Get a hold of yourself, Fearghal." His voice was firm and calm, but Alistair could see the twinkle in his eyes; or maybe that was the firelight.

Finally Fearghal's laughter stilled. Smiling broadly at Leliana, he flung one arm wide, while the other clutched the bottle he'd been drinking from. "The Maker 's on my side? Welcome aboard, then!" he announced gleefully.

"Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought." Morrigan's voice was cross and irritated.

For once, Alistair agreed with her. _More crazy; I thought we were all full up._

"Thank you! I appreciate being given this chance. I _will not_ let you down." Leliana beamed at Fearghal, apparently unconcerned that he was almost completely legless. "I will return first thing in the morning."

Fearghal saluted her with the bottle as she turned to leave, then promptly passed out.


	12. Chapter 12

Alistair struggled out of a very deep sleep. He felt the familiar early-morning ache in his groin and shifted slightly, trying to ease it. His mind in that pleasant place between sleep and waking. Something firm pressed against his groin and he moaned softly. _Oh, Andraste's flaming sword! That feels gooooood._ Unconsciously, his hips began to move.

When Fearghal woke, the first thing he was aware of was a dozen hammers beating a tattoo on the inside of his skull. The second thing was that someone seemed to have inflated his tongue and filled his mouth with fur. The third thing was that he was pinioned by a heavily muscled, arm, a large hand resting against his chest; he was encased by a warm, solid body; soft, steady breaths tickled the back of his neck; a large, very hard erection was pressed against his backside.

"Oh, Maker!" he groaned, his voice thick and rusty. "Tell me I didn't! Not with the Chantry boy."

Carefully, Fearghal lifted the blanket that was draped over him and looked down. He was relieved to see that he was wearing his small clothes. He fervently hoped that Alistair was too. The body folded around Fearghal's back stirred slightly; the erection twitched and began to rub slightly against his arse; a soft moan whispered behind his ear.

"Alistair!" a voice hissed.

Alistair tried to ignore the voice. It sounded cross with him. Maybe if he pretended he hadn't heard it, it would go away.

"Alistair!" the voice hissed again, a little more loudly.

It wasn't going to go away. "Wha'?" he mumbled.

"Get your cock away from my arse!" snarled Fearghal.

Alistair felt like somebody had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. He had probably never woken up so completely, in such a short space time, in his life. As his brain processed the words, it also made him aware of the fact that his body was wrapped around Fearghal like a blanket. He ignored the part of his brain that was telling him it felt very, very good. He scrambled backwards, desperate to put some space between himself and the other man. As he did so, Fearghal rolled onto his back, then clutched his head, groaning softly.

Fearghal glanced up at Alistair, who appeared to have been frozen to the side of the tent. The look on his face was a mixture of horror and terror; he was blushing so hard, he was almost puce. His eyes were glazed and his mouth was opening and closing like a hooked fish.

"I-I... oh, Maker... was asleep... I wasn't... I didn't mean...I-I..."

"Alistair!" snapped Fearghal.

Alistair's eyes snapped back into focus. "What?"

"Shut up and piss off," said Fearghal, trying not to wince at the sound of his own voice.

Alistair fumbled around and found a pair of breeches. Not caring if they were his or Fearghal's, he wriggled into them and scrambled out of the tent.

~o~O~o~

"Thanks." Alistair gratefully accepted the mug of tea that Bennet passed him. The sky had been only just beginning to lighten in the east when Fearghal had evicted him from the tent. He'd paid a visit to the latrine and then washed up as best he could in the stream. He'd hung around awkwardly, shivering in the cool air of the dawn clad in only his breeches, before he'd heard movement in Bennet's tent.

When Bennet had crawled out of his tent, yawning, he'd given Alistair an odd look. "Aren't you cold, lad?"

Alistair had shrugged miserably. "I think he's gone back to sleep," he said, jerking his head towards the tent he'd shared with Fearghal. "I-I... er... needed to use the latrine."

Bennet accepted this explanation without comment and disappeared off to the latrine himself.

When he returned, Bennet produced a kettle and busied himself making tea. He took the opportunity to show Alistair how to get a camp fire going and set the kettle over it. Alistair huddled gratefully by the fire.

Bennet looked at him curiously. "Why's his nibs call you 'Chantry boy'?"

"I was training to be a templar... before I became a Warden," explained Alistair.

"Ah," said Bennet. "You shouldn't let you give him a hard time, you know."

Alistair frowned. He got the impression that Fearghal might just kill him, if the mood took him. "He's a little... volatile."

Bennet sighed. "It might be hard for you to see right now, but he's actually a good lad." He chuckled softly. "He was always a bit...I dunno... wild is too strong a word." His face crumpled, creased with concern. "I've never seen him like this though. Like I said, grief takes folk different ways."

"He mentioned his father died recently," said Alistair, thinking back to the Joining. "He hasn't said much else and I couldn't ask, of course." Seeing Bennet's look, he explained, "It's a Warden thing. When you become a Warden you leave your old life behind. It's not done to ask a brother about his past."

"I see," said Bennet, passing Alistair a mug of tea.

"Thanks."

Bennet poured a mug for himself and a third, which he set to one side. He crawled over to the tent where Fearghal was still sleeping and stuck his head inside. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to rise and shine," he announced cheerfully.

"Get lost, Bennet, and just let me die in peace," came the mumbled reply.

Bennet laughed. "You come out here and make me, you big jessie. If you can't handle the hangover, you shouldn't be supping in the first place."

Bennet back away from the tent, calling, "I've brewed, lad. Come and get your tea 'cos I'm not bringing it in to you."

Bennet picked up a steaming mug of tea and sipped it carefully, smacking his lips in satisfaction. When there were no signs of movement inside the tent he winked at Alistair and called out, "Shift yourself, Fearghal. If I have to come in there and get you, you'll regret it."

He was answered by a string of muttered curses, but Fearghal could be heard stirring in the tent. Moments later he emerged, wincing at the sunlight, looking distinctly green. Bennet took one look at him and flung out his arm, pointing. "Latrine's that way."

Fearghal staggered off.

While he was gone, Bennet set some porridge going.

Alistair watched him admiringly. "You certainly seem to know what you're doing."

Bennet nodded, smiling. "Oh aye. Been out on patrol often enough, over the years. It's always easier to camp out than waste time looking for an Inn you might not find before dark. And there was the rebellion, of course."

"You fought in the rebellion?" Alistair asked.

Bennet chuckled. "I did. I were younger than you, mind. Only sixteen."

Bennet looked up as Morrigan joined them. "Tea, Miss?" he asked.

"I'll make my own," said Morrigan, producing a pouch of crushed, dried leaves. She shook some out into a mug and poured hot water on top of them.

Fearghal returned, looking pale. Bennet passed him a mug of tea. "There you go. Porridge'll be ready shortly."

Fearghal turned slightly green. "I really don't think... "

"It'll settle your stomach. Drink your tea," Bennet told him firmly.

Alistair hid a small smile as Fearghal raised the mug to his lips, slopping the tea slightly, his hand trembling.

~o~O~o~

Breakfast over, they started to break up their small camp.

"Er... good morning."

The red-haired Chantry sister smiled at them. Only she didn't look like a Chantry sister any more. She was clad in leather armour, two daggers at her hips and a longbow and quiver slung across her back.

"I'm sorry; I'm later than I meant to be. I was afraid I'd missed you."

Fearghal, only half in his armour, stared at her frowning. "Uhm... who are you?"

The sister looked uncertain. "I'm Leliana. I came to see you last night? You said I could come with you."

Fearghal looked at her doubtfully. "I did?" He looked across at Bennet, who nodded.

"You did," confirmed Bennet.

Fearghal sighed. "Very well." He looked at the pack Leliana had brought with her. "I don't suppose you've brought your own tent?"

Leliana shook her head apologetically.

"You'll have to share with Morrigan then."

At this news, the witch groaned.

"Look! I'll get some more tents as soon as I can find some," snapped Fearghal irritably. "I'm not that keen on sharing either," he growled, glaring at Alistair, who blushed furiously.

With Leliana helping, it didn't take long to get everything squared away and they were soon heading out of Lothering.

"Maker's breath! Would you look at the size of him!" gasped Bennet.

Trying not to move his aching head too fast, Fearghal looked over at where Bennet pointed. Hunched in a metal cage was the largest man Fearghal had ever seen; even bigger than Bennet. For a more normal-sized man the cage would have been cramped, but Fearghal wasn't sure how they'd even got this prisoner into the cage. He was too tall to stand up straight but the cage wasn't wide enough to let him squat down properly either. Fearghal wasn't sure he... it... was even a man; his colouring was strange. The man's skin was dark, yet his hair was pure white, the contrast startling.

"What _is_ he?" breathed Alistair, almost struck dumb.

"He said he was a Qunari, "Leliana informed them.

Fearghal racked his brains, trying to recall what he know of the Qunari. "From the north, right?"

" _That_ is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for the darkspawn," pronounced Morrigan.

Fearghal remembered the caged prisoner at Ostagar and shuddered.

"If you can't see a use for him," Morrigan continued, "I suggest releasing him for mercy's sake alone."

Fearghal stared at the prisoner. The Qunari were supposed to be great warriors; equipping him might prove tricky, due to his size, but it was certainly worth considering.

Leliana cleared her throat. "The revered mother said he slaughtered an entire family. Even the children."

Fearghal stiffened, then strode over to the cage. He glared up at the Qunari, who gazed down at him impassively, his eyes a strange muddy colour, almost violet.

"It is as she says," he said quietly, obviously having heard the whole conversation.

Although repulsed by the prisoner's crime, an image of Oren hovering at the edge of his mind, Fearghal found himself unexpectedly impressed with the man's admission of his guilt. He'd expected the man to deny his crime, or try to justify it. Instead, the man calmly admitted his guilt, offering no excuses.

Alistair watched Fearghal staring up at the giant in the cage. "Please tell me you're not thinking of bringing _him_ with us," he groaned.

"I take it you wouldn't approve, Alistair?" Fearghal's voice was cold and hard.

"Approve? No, it's not the word I would have chosen," said Alistair sarcastically.

"So we leave him here to be torn apart by the darkspawn?" Fearghal grinned wolfishly, warming to his theme, as he took in the distaste on Alistair's face. "I wonder," he mused aloud, "just how many darkspawn he could take down if we gave him a sword and pointed him at the horde, before he was overwhelmed."

"Pointed him at... ?" Alistair's incredulity gave way to disgust. "He's a murderer," he pointed out, an edge of anger creeping into his voice.

"Murderers and thieves... perfect Grey Warden fodder. I'm sure Duncan would have been _thrilled_ with him." He glanced up at the prisoner. "Do you have a preference?" he asked the giant. "Death in a cage, at the hands of the darkspawn, or death fighting darkspawn?"

"You are a Grey Warden, then?" asked the prisoner, his impassive facade giving way to curiosity.

"I am."

"My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill... " he looked Fearghal up and down, "though I suppose not every legend is true."

Fearghal laughed. "What can I say? You just can't get the staff these days, what with the Blight and all."

The prisoner ignored Fearghal's sarcasm and stared at him thoughtfully. "To die fighting darkspawn would be a good death."

Fearghal snorted. "You're not the first person I've heard to say that. I'm unconvinced myself, although I daresay I'll find out soon enough."

He looked at Leliana. "Would the revered mother release him into my custody?"

Leliana shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted."

"Perhaps," said the prisoner, "if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here."

Fearghal looked round; there was no-one else nearby. "Bennet, if Morrigan freezes the lock, can you bust it open?"

Bennet looked doubtful. "I can try, but do you think... "

Fearghal ignored Bennet's protests and nodded at Morrigan. Morrigan smiled gleefully and gestured at the lock, coating it in ice. Bennet sighed, then picked up one of the rocks that was lying around the cage and struck the lock. It took several hard blows before the lock broke and Bennet was able to pull the door to the cage open. He helped Sten out of the cage.

"Let's move, before anyone notices he's gone," ordered Fearghal, heading up the road.


	13. Chapter 13

The group headed west once they hit the main highway. Alistair led, with Bane at his side; Morrigan, Leliana and Sten were grouped in the middle and Bennet and Fearghal brought up the rear. Bennet glanced down at Fearghal; his posture was less tense, his anger disappearing back under the surface. They'd engaged a party of darkspawn just outside Lothering, and Bennet had been taken aback at the ferocity with which Fearghal had fought. He'd seen the younger man spar and fight many times but had never seen him so savage.

Bennet had been impressed with Leliana's skill with her bow. The lay sister had been coy about her past but was obviously an accomplished archer; how proficient she was with her blades remained to be seen. The back of Bennet's neck prickled as he regarded the hedge witch; he'd never fought with a mage before and it made him uneasy. At least Sten now had some armour and a huge two-handed axe, scavenged from a particularly large darkspawn that Alistair had pronounced was a hurlock alpha.

Bennet glanced behind them. The dwarven merchant that had been the object of the darkspawn attack followed them warily. The merchant, grateful for their timely rescue, had offered them a reward. Fearghal had been disappointed that the dwarf had only two tents; Sten had got one and Morrigan had seized the other one with glee. Fearghal had also spotted a fine razor; Bennet shook his head ruefully. _Typical nobility!_

"Have you decided where we're heading?" asked Bennet.

"I'd thought to visit the Circle Tower," Fearghal replied. "There was talk in Lothering of some trouble there."

"I've never been that far west before," mused Bennet.

Fearghal frowned. The kernel of an idea had been stewing in his mind all day, but he'd been avoiding it. "I've been thinking... maybe you should go back to Highever."

"Eh?" Bennet stopped, blinking at Fearghal.

Fearghal stopped also and faced the big man. "I want you to go home. I want you to organise some resistance to Howe. It will be risky, but you will know who you can trust and who you can't. Anything you can do to undermine Howe will be useful."

Bennet looked thoughtful. "I'm sure there will be lots of things I can do to make Howe's _administration_ more difficult," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face."

Fearghal grinned in reply. The two men started following the group but hung back slightly so that they wouldn't be overheard. Fearghal had lots of ideas about ways life in Highever could be disrupted for the invaders. "I don't want you, or any else, taking unnecessary risks though," he warned.

Bennet nodded. "I'll be careful," he promised. "You know, I'd travel faster on the highway. Why don't I stick with you as far as the Mage's Tower, then head east along the North Road?"

Fearghal considered this for a moment, then nodded.

"I wish there was some way you could get word to me; just so I could know what's going on up there."

Bennet was silent as they walked, gradually catching up with the others. "I have a cousin in Denerim. Maybe I could send him a message now and again," he said eventually.

Fearghal looked surprised. "I didn't know you had family in Denerim."

Bennet looked embarrassed. "We don't talk about him much. He's er... not quite on the right side of the law, if you know what I mean." He saw Fearghal's eyebrows go up and hurried to reassure him. "I can trust him. He won't turn you in or anything."

Fearghal nodded. "If you say he's trustworthy, then I believe you. How do I find him?"

"His name's Couldry, Jake Couldry, but everyone calls him 'Slim'. You can usually find him hanging around the Market Place in Denerim."

"Slim Couldry... I suppose..."

"Yeah, he's a big fat bastard!" said Bennet, grinning.

Alistair looked back over his shoulder at Fearghal's shout of laughter. Fearghal was walking at the rear, with Bennet, and looked relaxed and happy. Alistair felt his insides lurch as he looked at Fearghal smiling. This was the man who'd sat at Duncan's fire, playing with his hound, after expedition into the Wilds. Not for the first time, Alistair found himself hoping that Bennet would stay with them. The big man was affable and easy to like. Better still, not only was he obviously not intimidated by the volatile Fearghal, but Fearghal seemed to hold Bennet in high regard, which was a minor miracle because, as far as Alistair could tell, Fearghal hated everyone. Or at least, didn't appear to like them much.

 _He definitely hates_ _ **me**_ _... and this morning didn't help._ Alistair felt the heat flare in his face as he thought back to his rude awakening in the tent he'd shared with Fearghal. Alistair was grateful when Leliana came forward and started to chat with him about Chantry life. She was a little odd, but not overly pious, which was a relief. She did tend to prattle on a bit, but it was a welcome distraction from his own disturbing thoughts.

~o~O~o~

They walked until it was almost dark, then left the road and found somewhere suitable to camp. Sten was sent to gather wood for a fire while Alistair, Fearghal and Bennet set up the tents. Leliana disappeared with her bow and reappeared a short time later with several rabbits, and once Sten had gathered enough firewood, she and Morrigan set about preparing a meal.

Eventually the camp was set up and food cooked. Everyone sat around, eating in silence until Alistair asked Fearghal, hesitantly, "Have you had any thoughts about where we should head first?"

"I was thinking we should head to the Tower first," replied Fearghal, tucking in to another roast rabbit. "There was some talking Lothering of trouble up there, it might do to go and take a look."

"I ran into one of Arl Eamon's knights in Lothering. He said the Arl is very sick. I also think he's our best bet for help. Maybe we should head to Redcliffe first?" suggested Alistair.

Fearghal considered it while he picked clean the rabbit he was eating. He tossed the bones to Bane, then shrugged. "I don't see the rush. It's not like we have a healer with us. The Arl will either get better, or he won't." He glanced over at Alistair, who was glaring at him now. "Anyway, why are you leaving it up to me?"

Alistair shrugged, his anger at Fearghal's callousness dying as quickly as it had flared. "I don't even know where to start," he admitted. "I'll do whatever you decide."

Morrigan snorted. Fearghal turned to her. "You have something to say, Morrigan?"

"Go after your enemy directly. Find this man, Loghain and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety."

"He certainly wouldn't see that coming," scoffed Alistair. "And it's not like he had the advantage of armies and experience and..."

"I was asked for my opinion and I gave it," replied Morrigan haughtily, glaring at Alistair. "If your wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us."

"That's a bit harsh, Miss," put in Bennet. "Alistair's right. Loghain's a wily old fox and he's not going to be easy to get to."

"So, the Tower first then," said Fearghal decisively.

Fearghal stood and stretched. "We should set a watch." He looked at Alistair. "You and Bennet, take first watch; Leliana and Sten on second watch; I'll take the third watch with Morrigan."

Leliana started to protest, she didn't trust the big Qunari one bit.

Fearghal glared at her. "If you don't like it, Lothering's back that way," he told her coldly. Leliana flushed, but didn't argue.

"We don't need to keep watch. I can set wards around the camp," insisted Morrigan.

"I'd rather be safe than sorry. Set them anyway; we're very exposed out here."

Morrigan nodded and busied herself, setting the wards.

~o~O~o~

Alistair and Bennet took another turn around the small perimeter of the camp then stood near the fire for a bit to warm up again.

Alistair heard Bennet take a deep breath, then say, "Don't take this the wrong way, lad, but you shouldn't let him get his own way all the time."

Alistair shrugged. "I didn't like how he put it, but I couldn't argue with his logic."

"He's used to ordering men around, it doesn't mean he's always right though. Just saying, is all."

Alistair smiled ruefully. "Whereas I have always been told what to do."

"Doesn't mean you don't have an opinion, or that you won't think of things that he misses. Don't be afraid to speak your mind. A leader needs a good second, one who'll put him straight."

Alistair brightened. A second. He liked the sound of that; he was used to being at the very bottom of the pecking order.

"A word of advice, from one who knows him. He's stubborn as a mule." Bennet chuckled softly. "The best way to get him to do something is to tell him he can't. You'll have to be a bit... canny with him."

Alistair groaned, thinking back to Lothering. "Sten."

"Aye, Sten."

"Thanks for the advice. I'll bear it in mind." He grinned at Bennet. "I'm glad you're with us. He seems less... " he stopped, trying to find the right words.

"I'm heading back to Highever once you get to the Tower, lad," Bennet told him, regretfully.

"What?" yelped Alistair in dismay. Looking round guiltily and lowering his voice, he asked,"Why?"

Bennet nodded at Fearghal's tent. "There's some things I need to do up there, for Fearghal." Seeing questions in Alistair's face, he forestalled him. "It's probably best you don't know too much." He clapped his hand on Alistair's back. "Come on, we ought to have another turn about. It'll be time to wake Leliana and Sten soon."

~o~O~o~

Alistair removed most of his armour outside the tent, then crawled inside clad in just shirt and breeches. Fearghal stirred restlessly as Alistair settled himself on his bedroll and wrapped himself in a blanket, but didn't wake. Alistair laid on his back, trying to clear his mind so he could sleep. At his side, Fearghal stirred again, whimpering softly. Suddenly, Fearghal sat up with a yell, trying frantically to scoot backwards.

"Darkspawn dream?" asked Alistair, not unsympathetically.

Fearghal relaxed as he realised where he was. He rubbed his hand over his face, groaning, "It seemed so real."

Alistair turned on to his side and propped himself up on his elbow, resting his head on his hand. "Well, it is real."

"What _is_ that thing?" asked Fearghal as he settled himself down again. "Is it really a dragon?"

"The dragon? That's the Archdemon. It... talks to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight. It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out."

Fearghal just grunted at this information.

"I found them terrifying at first," confessed Alistair.

"I'm not frightened," snapped Fearghal.

"No? That's not why you were trying to get out of the back of tent?" scoffed Alistair. He grinned in the dark. "I screamed like a girl. Duncan said he thought I had someone in my room."

Fearghal snorted. "That seems unlikely," he retorted.

Alistair flushed in the dark at the jibe. He wasn't sure exactly what Fearghal found unlikely, but didn't want him to clarify his statement; Alistair _was_ sure that he wouldn't like the answer. He tried to relax, just wanting to sleep. He'd just been joking, trying to make Fearghal realise that all Wardens had the same dreams and that they _all_ found them troubling; it was nothing to be defensive about.

Fearghal's comment aroused the familiar confusion in Alistair. He had been on the receiving end on some light-hearted teasing when he joined the Grey Wardens. It was common knowledge that he'd been conscripted from the Chantry and widely assumed that he was a virgin. There had even been a well-intentioned offer to take him to a brothel in Denerim to rectify that state of affairs. Alistair had been almost panic-stricken; the thought of losing his virginity was terrifying enough, as inexperienced as he was. The idea of trying to undertake such a thing with someone he had no desire for brought him out in a cold sweat. In the darkest recess of his mind, Alistair admitted to himself he only occasionally felt attracted to a woman but as all his comrades seemed to assume it would be a woman he wanted, he'd not felt able to discuss his feelings with any of them. He was baffled at how _indiscriminate_ some of his comrades seemed with regards to women; he found the thought of trying to have sex with a woman more terrifying than arousing.

Fearghal was the first person that Alistair had met who didn't make that assumption. Alistair almost groaned aloud as he remembered the crude analogy he'd used, quite unconsciously. Fearghal had picked up on it straight away and freely admitted his own preferences. Alistair had been quite shocked; men liking other men was something that was whispered about, frowned upon as deviant by the Chantry. He remembered overheard conversations amongst the other boys, the crude words, the scorn; his own shame about his feelings for Cullen. For a brief, mad moment Alistair considered trying to talk to Fearghal about it then dismissed the idea; he could only imagine Fearghal's mockery. Alistair shuffled restlessly for a long time before sleep claimed him.


	14. Chapter 14

The group camped within sight of the Mage's Tower after a very tedious week of walking. Apart from the occasional group of darkspawn, which were easily handled, they'd met few travellers. It would seem that any refugees were heading East from Lothering, towards Denerim. Fearghal had noted, with some amusement, that the dwarf merchant still followed them at a safe distance, presumably hoping that the Wardens would clear the way for him.

Alistair hunkered down near their camp fire and stretched out his hands to warm them.

He looked up at Fearghal, who was staring into the flames, lost in thought. "Bennet said you're both from Highever?"

Fearghal looked surprised, but didn't comment, just nodded his head tersely.

"Duncan once told me was from Highever too," said Alistair quietly.

Fearghal snorted. "He must have left a long time ago, then. Highever was well rid of him."

Alistair stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "He was a _good_ man!"

Fearghal raised an eyebrow. "You're entitled to your opinion," he muttered.

Alistair glared at him. "He sometimes had to do things he didn't like. It goes with the job. Maker's breath! There's a blight starting right under our noses. You _know_ that! Doesn't that mean anything to you? Is there nothing you care about?"

Alistair took an involuntary step back at the fury that blossomed in Fearghal's eyes.

"Everything I ever cared about is _gone_. I was fighting for what I cared for; I would have gladly _died_ for it except for your precious Duncan and his damned conscription." Fearghal laughed bitterly. "The supreme irony is that Duncan yanked me out of one massacre and marched me straight to another one."

Alistair frowned, squirreling away this new titbit of information. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that Duncan had told him more about Fearghal. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but there was something so _raw_ about Fearghal; it intimidated him. That, more than any unwritten Warden rules about asking after a man's past, turned the question into ashes in his mouth.

"I wish you could have known the other Wardens. You only ever met Duncan and myself." Alistair smiled wryly, trying to defuse the situation. "I'm not sure we're very representative."

Fearghal's look was sceptical.

"Duncan was like a father to me," murmured Alistair sadly, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.

To his surprise, a stricken look crossed Fearghal's face, before he rubbed his hand over his face wearily.

Fearghal felt a pang of guilt, almost shame. He'd been so wrapped up in what _he'd_ lost, he hadn't stopped to consider how Alistair might be feeling after Ostagar. Fearghal thought back to what Alistair had told him in the cave. Alistair had never known any real family and, by all accounts, hadn't been happy at the Chantry. The Grey Wardens were probably the closest thing to a family Alistair had ever had known.

Fearghal saw the misery and embarrassment on Alistair's face and felt ashamed of himself. "I-I'm sorry... " he stammered, lost for words. "I didn't realise... "

Alistair shrugged, mortified. "It doesn't matter. I know from what you said at your Joining that your father... " He looked across at Fearghal. "Duncan felt bad about it, you know."

Fearghal's sympathy fled. "Oh, well that's all right then... " he scoffed.

Alistair almost groaned aloud. "I just... "

Fearghal pushed past him. "I'm going to get some sleep. You should, too. It's getting late."

Alistair dawdled by the fire for a few moments, then followed Fearghal into the tent. It was cramped and difficult not to get in each other's way as they removed their armour; Alistair tried not to let Fearghal's irritated sighing fluster him. Once out of his armour, Fearghal wrapped himself up in his blanket and turned onto his side, completely ignoring Alistair. Once free of his own armour, Alistair followed suit. He lay in the dark, aware of the tension in the other man. He heard Fearghal sigh heavily, almost a whimper, and wondered what Fearghal was thinking about.

~o~O~o~

 _Fearghal, Ser Gilmore and Ser Arrol walked down the lane to the village in the fading light. They had spent the last few hours training and sparring and after cleaning up, changing and a quick meal had hurried out of Castle Cousland towards The Fat Badger for a well-deserved drink._

 _The summer had suddenly faded into autumn and dusk was arriving earlier each day. By the time they got down to the tavern it was almost completely dark; chinks of light gleamed through closed shutters. Fearghal pushed open the door and light and noise spilled out into the gloom. The three men stepped into the bright, warm tavern. Ser Gilmore hurriedly shut the door as a chorus of protest arose at the sudden draught. The tap room was packed; mostly men from Castle Cousland but there was a respectable contingent representing the village too._

 _Ser Arrol looked around the room frowning. "Most of this lot are supposed to be on guard duty at five bells," he muttered._

 _Fearghal rolled his eyes. "Give them a break, Marcus. It's still early for all its dark."_

 _Arrol snorted. "That's all right for you to say, you won't have to rouse the sluggards in the morning. It's like trying to raise the dead!"_

 _Fearghal laughed and started pushing his way to the bar. He heard Gilmore chuckle behind him._

 _"Maybe you should get an early night yourself; set them an example," suggested Gilmore slyly._

 _"Not on your life! I've earned this," Arrol declared fervently. "Anyway," he grumbled," my good example would be wasted on this lot."_

 _Fearghal turned from the bar and passed two pints of ale back to Gilmore and Arrol. As he rejoined the other two, one of the Castle men looked up and spotted them._

 _"Evenin' m'lord, sers," he called, lifting his own pint in salute. The other men sat at the table looked up smiling and murmuring as Fearghal returned the greeting, then raised his flagon to his mouth, drinking deeply._

 _Fearghal caught sight of a huge man sitting on a settle and grinned. "Bennet, your good lady wife is looking for you, I believe."_

 _Bennet blanched and drained his pint. "I'd best be off," he muttered, ignoring the sniggering that broke out around him._

 _"Yeah, you don't want any more_ injuries _," teased one of his companions to more sniggering._

 _"Hey, Bennet," called another voice. "Do you 'ave to sit down for that mite of a woman to black your eye?"_

 _The big man scowled at his companions. "You're all a bunch of bastards," he growled. "I_ told _you. That was an_ accident _."_

 _The sniggering gave way to open laughter._

 _"Yeah, yeah. We know," replied his tormentor. "You big girl's blouse," he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear, causing another outburst of laughter at Bennet's expense._

 _Bennet stood and pushed his way to the door, disappearing into the night._

 _Fearghal grinned. "Excellent, now two of us can sit down!" he announced happily to more chuckles, as he scooted round the table and sat on the settle. Gilmore joined him and Arrol pulled up a chair and sat at the end of the table._

 _"So," asked Gilmore curiously, "is Bennet's wife really looking for him?"_

 _"I have no idea... probably," replied Fearghal, his blue eyes twinkling. "She might be grateful for an early night with him."_

 _"Yeah," agreed one of the other men. "For all she so small, he's the only man big enough to 'andle er, if you know what I mean." He winked._

 _"I 'eard her Gran were a dwarf," offered another._

 _"That would explain her mean right hook then," said Gilmore dryly to more laughter._

 _Fearghal caught the eye of the Innkeeper and gestured for a round of ale for everyone. He felt the tension ease out of him and relaxed against the back of the settle. It was a bit of a crush and he was suddenly painfully aware of Gilmore's body pressed against his side. He tried to ignore him and concentrate on the various conversations that had broken out around him. He could feel the pressure of Gilmore's thigh against his own. He only half-heard ser Arrol telling the men about their sparring earlier in the day._

 _"So, Ser Gilmore," called a voice, "'ave you made his lordship beg for mercy yet?"_

 _Gilmore smiled wryly. "No, not yet, Fenwick," he admitted. He twisted his head and smirked at Fearghal. "But I will," he promised._

 _At his words Fearghal froze._ Maker, he's going to kill me saying things like that! _Fearghal sipped his pint, trying to calm the feelings that raged in him at Gilmore's words. Since he'd developed his crush on Rory Gilmore, everything sounded like a double entendre._

 _"I wish you'd bloody hurry about it," grumbled Fenwick._

 _Gilmore laughed. "I'm working on it, believe me."_

 _Fearghal almost choked on his ale; he could have sworn he felt Gilmore's thigh rub against his own._ Maferath's balls!

 _"Anyway, Fenwick. Why the sudden interest in my prowess?" enquired Gilmore._

 _Fearghal concentrated on his ale._ I wish they'd change the bloody subject.

 _"Some of us got a sweepstake going on it," admitted Fenwick, to the amusement of the others._

 _Fearghal was grateful when ser Arrol, mindful of the time, rounded up most of the men from the castle and reminded them of how early they had to be up in the morning. Grumbling good-naturedly they allowed themselves to be herded out of the tavern. Fearghal headed back to the bar and returned with more ale for himself and Gilmore, seating himself at the far end of the settle. It was much easier to chat with Gilmore when his leg wasn't pressed against him; he could almost forget how badly he wanted him._

 _Two hours later Fearghal and Gilmore rose and headed slightly unsteadily for the door. They weaved up the hill in silence. Fearghal found himself trying to put some distance between himself and Gilmore, which disturbed him. He had tried to keep a tight rein on his feelings, worried about ruining his friendship with Gilmore if the other man guessed what was going through his mind._ 'But I'm ruining it anyway,' _he though sadly. He staggered slightly, having meandered slightly off the path onto rougher ground._

 _"Careful, Fearghal" Gilmore was slipping and arm around his waist in an attempt to steady him._

 _Startled, and not a little guilty about the feelings Gilmore's touch aroused in him, he tried to pull away. Fearghal lost his balance completely, pulling Gilmore down on top of him. He lay there for a long moment, winded. He frowned, waiting for Gilmore to get off him but Gilmore wasn't moving. Fearghal twisted his head to the side, embarrassed as he felt his body respond to the man who lay on him._ Maker! He'll know!

 _"Fearghal." Gilmore's voice was little more than a soft breath of air on Fearghal's cheek._

 _Fearghal turned his head and looked up. Gilmore was gazing down at him. In the pale moonlight his pale skin looked almost silver, his green eyes huge dark orbs._

 _"Fearghal." There was just the barest hint of a question in Gilmore's voice._

 _Sobering, Fearghal realised that he could feel something pressing into his hip._

 _Almost without realising what he was doing, Fearghal raised his hands and cradled Gilmore's face._

 _"I yield," he muttered hoarsely. "I yield, Rory."_

 _In the moonlight, Fearghal, saw Gilmore's small, unmistakably triumphant smile. He lifted his head and brushed his lips against Gilmore's, exalting in the shiver he felt ripple through the other man. His hand slipped round to cup Gilmore's head, pulling it down, and Fearghal kissed him again, more firmly. Gilmore nibbled gently at his lower lip and Fearghal gasped as a jolt of pleasure shot through him, then Gilmore's tongue was in his mouth._


	15. Chapter 15

Fearghal lay on his back, eyes closed fighting back tears at the memory of Rory. He had been trying so hard to avoid memories; not just of Rory, but his parents, his family. Those memories were buried in a deep well, full of pain, one that he couldn't afford to reach into right now. He tried to find the anger again, to keep the memories at bay, but Rory would not be denied.

Fearghal found himself thinking back to that night. His family had been abed when they got back to the castle and Fearghal had smuggled Rory into his room. It had quickly become plain that Rory was not inexperienced. Fearghal felt himself harden and stifled a groan as he remembered how Rory had accepted his surrender and made Fearghal his. Fearghal hesitated, listening carefully; Alistair's breathing was soft and steady. Fearghal unlaced his breeches and softly began to stroke his straining erection, reliving that night.

 _Fearghal and Rory crept past the unoccupied guest rooms. Fearghal raised a finger to his lips and signalled Rory to wait, then crept into the vestibule that led to the private family quarters. The doors to both his parents' room and Fergus's room were closed. Softly Fearghal crept to the doors and listened. He heard his father snoring; from behind Fergus's door came a low laugh and a higher-pitched giggle. Fearghal grinned to himself._ Fergus and Oriana sound like they're having too much fun to worry about what anyone else is up to.

 _He crossed quietly to his own room and gestured to Rory to follow him. Moments later they were safely in Fearghal's room. The servants had been in earlier to light the lamps; they wouldn't be back tonight unless summoned. He turned to Rory, suddenly unsure of himself. He'd wanted this so badly for so long now, he was afraid he was going to mess up somehow._

 _As Fearghal hesitated, Rory stepped close._

 _"I've wanted to do this for such a long time, Fearghal," Rory confessed, leaning in to kiss him._

 _Fearghal's legs turned to jelly at the slow, sensual kiss, exploring but not demanding. Part of him wanted to grasp, to snatch, to tear greedily at the man who had been the object of his desire for so long, yet the kiss was so deliciously slow, so full of promise, he never wanted it to end. Instead, he struggled to restrain the passion that blazed through him and returned the kiss, tentatively exploring Rory's mouth with his own._

 _Fearghal's arms came up and he clasped Rory to him, gasping at how glorious that hard body felt pressed against his own. That gasp frayed some of Rory's self-control and his tongue plunged into Fearghal's mouth, the kiss now hungry and commanding. Rory's hands skimmed over Fearghal, then he was tugging Fearghal's shirt free of his breeches and his hands were underneath it, hitching it up higher and higher. Aching with desire Fearghal ground his pelvis against the other man, feeling Rory's hard erection through the cloth of their breeches._

 _Fearghal whimpered as fingers grazed over his skin. He released Rory and tore himself away from the searing kiss; he ripped his shirt off over his head, then grasped Rory's shirt and started pulling it up. Rory raised his arms, allowing Fearghal to pull the shirt off. Fearghal reached out only to find his wrist caught in Rory's strong fist._

 _"Nah-ah, you yielded to me, remember?" Rory reminded him with a sly smile._

 _Fearghal swallowed nervously. This wasn't what he'd expected at all; he was used to being the one in charge. He gazed into Rory's eyes, normally so green, now almost black with desire. He nodded slowly, and relaxed his arm in Rory's grip. Rory leaned in and kissed Fearghal lightly, his mouth moving along his jaw and down his neck, occasionally sucking, sometimes nipping lightly with his teeth._

 _Fearghal trembled as Rory's hands resumed their exploration. The other man's hands and mouth seemed to be all over him and he was awash with sensation. Fingernails scraped down his back and a hand briefly cupped his backside, then was gone, moving on. Rory's mouth suckled, nipped and teased at the skin on Fearghal's shoulders, his chest, his arms. Fearghal whimpered; he desperately wanted to reciprocate but every time he tried, Rory withdrew, tutting at him. Fearghal growled, torn between passion and frustration; he was unused to being so passive._

 _Fearghal's insides lurched as he felt a tug at the laces of his breeches. In moments Rory had them untied and pushed them down, along with Fearghal's small clothes, exposing Fearghal's erection. Fearghal held his breath as long, slim fingers fluttered down his chest and on over his belly. Rory slowly lowered himself to his knees, his mouth trailing kisses in the wake of his teasing fingers. Fearghal gasped as Rory ran his tongue from the bottom of his shaft to the top._

 _Unable to resist, Fearghal reached out and ran his hand through Rory's hair, pulling Rory's head towards his twitching cock; he was surprised at how soft and silky the flaming red hair felt under his fingers. Rory looked up at Fearghal, his eyes smouldering and ran his tongue over his lips, then dipped his head and covered Fearghal with his mouth. Fearghal groaned and thrust his hips forward. Rory's head dipped lower, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked; Fearghal's legs quivered as he looked down, drinking in the sight of his cock buried in Rory Gilmore's mouth. Fearghal groaned loudly as he felt callused hands reach round and caress his backside, firm fingers parting his cheeks._

 _"Rory, I'm... I can't..." rasped Fearghal as his fingers clenched in the silky red hair and his hips thrust as he came in Rory's mouth. Fearghal shuddered and moaned as Rory sucked hard, milking him._

Fearghal almost sobbed as he came. The immediate physical need was sated, but not the deeper need; not the longing for Rory, the longing to be held by him, to be comforted and reassured. Fearghal's breath came in broken gasps as he choked back tears.

~o~O~o~

Alistair was hovering on the edge of sleep when he heard Fearghal groan softly. He listened carefully, it had almost sounded as if the other man was in pain. Soft rustling, another low groan, more rustling. In the dark Alistair frowned. _What is he ...? Oh, Maker! He's..._ Alistair gulped. He remembered lying awake in the dormitory and hearing similar noises; he remembered lying awake and _making_ similar noises.

Alistair felt a throb of desire at the realisation that Fearghal was wanking; he almost groaned as his own cock responded. He clenched his jaw in an effort to stay quiet; if Fearghal realised he was awake... well, Alistair wasn't sure what he'd do. He couldn't help wondering what it would feel like if it was _his_ hand stroking Fearghal's erection or, conversely, as his own hand wandered down under his small clothes, how it would feel if it was Fearghal's hand encircling him. He choked down a whimper. Trying to keep his own breathing steady, Alistair caressed himself; over the years in the Chantry, he'd become practiced at doing this quietly. Alistair felt his orgasm build at the soft noises coming from Fearghal and at the sound of a ragged moan from the other man, hot, sticky liquid spurted into his hand. Alistair was startled at gasping breaths that issued from Fearghal; it almost sounded as if he was crying. Guilt at intruding on Fearghal's privacy warred with a desire to reach out to the other man, to try and comfort him.

~o~O~o~

Alistair groaned when something shook his foot.

"Time to get up, Alistair," said a cheerful voice.

He opened one eye and saw Bennet's face grinning at him, then shut it again.

Bennet shook his foot harder. "Come on, sleepy head. Tea's mashed and breakfast is on."

"Yeah. I'm up, I'll be right out," grumbled Alistair.

He emerged from the tent into the gloomy morning. The sky was grey and the air cold and damp. Once he was upright, he was presented with a mug of strong tea by a disgustingly alert Bennet. He was slightly surprised to see Fearghal tending the porridge. Fearghal doled out porridge to everyone.

Leliana murmured appreciatively. "I do like a man who can cook."

Fearghal snorted. "It's porridge; it's not exactly cooking."

Bennet laughed. "He's being modest. He does a fair fry up and mashes a mean brew," he said raising his mug in a salute to Fearghal.

Fearghal just rolled his eyes and ate his porridge.

Once breakfast was finished, they started to break up the camp and pack their gear up. Alistair helped Bennet take down the tents and fold them up.

Bennet glanced around to check where Fearghal was, then jerked his head at Alistair. "I'll be setting out back to Highever today, lad. I wanted to ask you... " he paused making sure that Fearghal was still out of earshot.

Looking slightly embarrassed, he continued, "... will you keep an eye out for Fearghal? I know you haven't seen him at his best, but really, he's a good lad at heart." He stopped frowning.

"I'm worried about him. I've never seen him like this." He shrugged sheepishly. "Anyway, if you'd just watch out for him... "

He stopped as he saw Fearghal walking over to them. Alistair nodded briefly in agreement, then bent to the task of folding up the tents.

Alistair started handing out packs; he, Fearghal and Sten would carry the packs with the tents in, while the two women had lighter loads. He turned to Bennet and held out his arm. "Goodbye, Bennet. May the Maker watch over you."

Bennet grasped Alistair's forearm. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Alistair. Maybe, once all this is over, Fearghal will bring you up to Highever. My missus is a grand cook and you've an appetite to do justice to any meal." Bennet grinned.

Alistair grinned back at him, ignoring Fearghal's scowl. "I'd like that. In the meantime, safe journey."

Alistair dropped the Bennet's hand, shouldered his pack and turned, heading down towards the road. He sincerely doubted that Fearghal would ever take him to Highever, but he was touched by the invitation. He liked the big Highever man.

The rest of the group murmured their goodbyes to Bennet and followed Alistair, leaving Bennet and Fearghal to say their goodbyes in private.

Fearghal was horrified by the sudden lump in his throat. He coughed awkwardly. "Well, Bennet... "

Bennet held his arm out and Fearghal grasped it tightly. "You take care, Bennet. Like I said, don't take any risks."

"I won't, m'lord. And you, I hope you'll come back to us soon," replied Bennet, his voice suddenly thick. He clapped Fearghal on the back then gave him a little push. "May the Maker watch over you, Lord Fearghal."

Fearghal turned and looked over his shoulder at Bennet; his voice almost breaking as he returned the traditional response. "May he watch over us all."

Bennet watched as Fearghal joined the rest of the group and without even glancing at them, set off up the road at a blistering pace. Fearghal's gait was stiff and his posture radiated tension. Bennet found himself wishing that he hadn't agreed so readily to Fearghal's suggestion that he co-ordinate some resistance to Howe in Highever. He worried not only for Fearghal, but also his companions. The young lord was eaten up with anger and bitterness, unable to grieve for his family and friends. _It i'nt right, something's got to give sooner or later... probably better for all of 'em if it's sooner._ Bennet watched the group with a heavy heart until they disappeared from sight, then headed down to the road and back towards the North Road.


	16. Chapter 16

Alistair took in the set of Fearghal's shoulders and the closed, hard look on his face and felt his heart sink. While not exactly the life and soul of the party, Fearghal had definitely been more relaxed and easier to live with when Bennet was around. Alistair was going to miss the big Highever man, and not just because his presence made Fearghal less moody; Bennet was easy to get along with and good company in his own right.

"What's the set up in there?" muttered Fearghal, jerking his head towards the tower.

Alistair was surprised by the question, realising that the tower was something he knew a lot about and Ferghal didn't.

"You'll need to speak to the Knight-Commander of the Templars and the First Enchanter, a mage called Irving."

Fearghal frowned. "Why do I need to speak to the Knight-Commander? The treaty is with the mages."

"The mages aren't going anywhere unless the Knight-Commander agrees," explained Alistair.

Fearghal huffed in frustration but said nothing further.

They reached the Inn by the lakeside and Fearghal turned to face the small band. "Sten, Leliana, you wait here. Morrigan and Alistair, come with me to the Tower."

Fearghal drew a couple of sovereigns from his purse and gave them to Leliana. "You can both wait in the Inn."

"Er... do you think it's wise, taking an apostate into the Tower?" asked Alistair.

"No," said Fearghal. "But I think it's even less wise leaving her out here in easy reach of dozens of Templars. If anyone queries who she is, we can say she's a Grey Warden."

"Fair enough," agreed Alistair.

"Let's get going. Leave your packs here, we shouldn't need them in the Tower." Fearghal turned and headed to the small jetty.

Alistair was surprised to see a Templar at the end of the jetty, instead of the boatman. "That's not usual," he muttered to Fearghal.

The Templar turned to them. "You! You're not looking to get across are you? I have strict orders not to let anyone pass!"

"I need to get to the Tower," stated Fearghal firmly.

The Templar shook his head. "No-one gets to the Tower. No-one! It's off-limits!"

Fearghal sighed, shaking his head, then charged into the Templar, sending him flying. As the Templar staggered backwards, Fearghal grasped his right arm and spun the man round, twisting his arm up his back. Ignoring the man's cries of pain, he man-handled him to the edge of the jetty.

"I'm not going to ask again," he growled. "Either you take us across or you go for a swim and I'll row myself across."

"Ow! You're breaking my arm! I-I'll take you!" the man shrieked.

Fearghal pulled the man back from the edge and let him go. The Templar stretched his arm carefully, then with a resentful look at Fearghal headed for the row boat. The Templar seated himself at the oars whilst Alistair and Fearghal got into the boat. Morrigan hesitated on the edge of the small dock with Bane until Fearghal grasped her round the waist and lifted her down easily, ignoring her indignant cry. He snapped his fingers at Bane who cowered on the edge of the dock, whining.

Fearghal eyed his dog sternly. "You either get in the boat or swim," he told him. Bane flinched backwards as Fearghal reached for him.

"Suit yourself." Fearghal turned to the Templar. "Start rowing."

The Templar started to row, making a big show of wincing as he used his twisted arm. On the dock, Bane started pacing back and forth, whining pathetically. Fearghal pointedly ignored his dog, but a small smile twisted his mouth at the big splash the dog made as he hit the water. At the far side of the lake he helped Morrigan out of the boat, then stood back as his hound shook himself vigorously.

"... and I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times. Do _not_ open the doors without my express consent. Is that clear?" The grey-haired templar whirled as Fearghal and his companions entered the tower.

"The doors are barred. Are they keeping people out? Or _in_?" Alistair muttered.

"Who are you?" demanded the templar. "I explicitly told Carrol not to bring anyone across the lake. We're dealing with a very delicate situation. You must leave, for your own safety."

"We are Grey Wardens, ser. I am Fearghal, my companions are Alistair and Morrigan. You're the Knight-Commander?"

The templar eyed Morrigan suspiciously, then nodded at Alistair. "I'm Knight-Commander Greagoir. I say again, you must leave. The tower isn't safe."

"I can't do that, Knight-Commander. I bear a treaty that obliges the Circle to provide aid in the event of a Blight."

"You'll find no allies here, Wardens," Greagoir informed them. As Fearghal started to object, the Knight-Commander explained that there had been a rebellion and the tower was overrun by abominations. Unable to regain control, the templars had fled and locked the doors into the tower.

"You shut everyone in there? Including innocent mages?" Fearghal was appalled.

"Not just mages, but my templars also. I had no choice. The abominations must be contained at all costs." retorted Greagoir, defensively.

Fearghal 's face went flat, his voice cold. "So, the templars have failed to do the job and you have decided to abandon mages and templars alike?"

Greagoir flushed with anger. "We do not mean for the doors to stay closed forever. Everything in the tower must be eliminated. I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment," he snarled.

"Denerim? It's going to take weeks for those reinforcements to get here!" shouted Fearghal angrily.

"The mages are probably already dead."

Greagoir pinched his nose, trying to control his temper. "If we enter the tower now, we will be massacred. I cannot order my men to their deaths. While the door holds, we wait."

Alistair groaned at the feral grin that spread across Fearghal's face. He remembered what Bennet had said to him. _'He's stubborn as a mule. The best way to get him to do something is to tell him he can't.'_

Fearghal rubbed his hands together in mock glee. "Oh, how jolly! A massacre! I haven't survived one of those in almost a fortnight. Let's hope that third time isn't the charm, eh?"

Greagoir stared at Fearghal as if he was mad. Alistair couldn't blame him.

Fearghal's face became hard again. "If I help you deal with the Circle, will you lend us aid?"

"If you manage to destroy the abominations then, yes, the templars will join your army," promised Greagoir.

Fearghal snorted. "Then let us hope I find some mages alive. If your templars are as brave in the face of darkspawn as they are when confronted by abominations, they won't be much use to me."

Greagoir flushed at the insult. "A word of caution," he growled. "Once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof that it's safe. I will only believe it is over if the first enchanter stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen... then the Circle is lost and must be destroyed."

Fearghal nodded, then turned to Alistair and Morrigan. "Come on, let's get started."

Alistair looked doubtful. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"If you'd rather stay out here, like a _templar_ , Alistair, then say so," scoffed Fearghal.

"What? I... no!" Alistair flushed. He lowered his voice, trying to keep his anger in check. "I'm just not sure you have any idea what you're getting us into."

Fearghal regarded Alistair carefully. "You have the skills of a templar still, yes?"

Alistair nodded.

"Between you and Morrigan we should be able to make some headway. I can't believe there are no survivors in there; we'll surely come across other templars and mages who can help. It'll be like the Tower of Ishal, we clear it out room by room, floor by floor."

Alistair sighed. "There'd better not be a bloody ogre at the top!" he muttered.

Fearghal laughed. "Well if there is, it's your turn to dance with it. I'll just lie down and take a nap."

In spite of his anxiety, Alistair couldn't help but smile.

Seeing him waver, Fearghal pressed his case. "We can _do_ this! We can't just _abandon_ those people left in there to starve to death while waiting for reinforcements from Denerim."

Alistair sighed, then nodded his assent. _I'm not sure who's the bigger lunatic; him for thinking we can do this or me for agreeing._

Fearghal grinned, then glanced at Morrigan. "Ready?" he asked her.

Morrigan nodded and marched towards the great metal doors, casting a disdainful look at the templars on her way.

Alistair followed feeling slightly baffled. This side of Fearghal was one he hadn't expected, persuasive, full of enthusiasm and confidence, almost charming.

The huge metal doors closed behind them with an ominous, dull clang that seemed to resound off the stone walls. The first few rooms they checked were empty but all looked as if a tornado had swept through them. Desks and chairs were overturned, books and papers were strewn around. Fearghal led them cautiously up the corridor which suddenly opened out into a large hall where they found three mages, two women and a man.

"Stop right there! Take another step, and I swear I will strike you down where you stand!" declared one of the mages, an older woman with snow white hair.

Fearghal halted so abruptly that Alistair almost bumped into him. Fearghal held his hands up, trying to look as benign as possible. He looked around the hall and was astonished to see a group of young children huddled in a corner.

"Wait, there are children here?" he asked, almost unable to believe his eyes.

"I am Wynne, mage of the Circle, and these children are under my protection," the mage told him.

Fearghal bowed. "I am a Grey Warden, and I seek the help of the mages. What happened here?" asked Fearghal.

"There was a revolt, led by a mage, Uldred. He tried to take over the Circle. As you can see, it didn't work out as he had planned."

"He was at the War Council, with the King and Loghain!" Fearghal burst out. "Where is he now?"

Wynne shook her head. "I don't know what became of Uldred, but I am certain all this is his doing. I will not lose the Circle to one man's pride and stupidity."

"So what do you intend?"

Wynne gestured behind her. "I erected a barrier over the door leading to the rest of the tower, so nothing from inside could attack the children. You won't be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save this Circle."

Fearghal grinned. "Madam, I like the way you think! Will the children be safe here?"

"Petra and Kinnon will watch them. If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten the children."

Fearghal nodded. "That was pretty much the plan."

"You want us to assist this preachy schoolmistress? To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages?" demanded Morrigan. "They allow themselves to be corralled like cattle. Now their masters have chosen death for them and I say let them have it."

"I've made my decision. We will help Wynne," snapped Fearghal.

"Have it your way," huffed Morrigan, sulkily.

Fearghal turned to Wynne. "If you are ready, let's go end this."

Wynne nodded and gestured at the barrier, her lips moving. Gradually it dissipated, leaving the way ahead clear. Fearghal led the way through the doorway into the interior of the tower, which was eerily silent.


	17. Chapter 17

Alistair stretched, yawning. Although Fearghal had taken the first watch, allowing him a few hours sleep, he was finding it hard to stay awake. The mages' sleeping cubicles were remarkably intact, unlike the apprentice quarters below, which had been ripped apart. There had been noticeably few bodies up here too, although they were all so tired, Alistair doubted that a little detail like corpses would have disturbed their sleep.

Alistair prowled restlessly up and down the short section of corridor, pausing to peer into the cubicle where Fearghal had collapsed onto a mattress. The small window high up in the wall permitted a silver shaft of moonlight to penetrate the darkness. _He looks so much younger than he does when he's awake._ Alistair stiffened as Fearghal stirred restlessly and rolled onto his back, one arm flung up above his head. Then Fearghal started to snore and Alistair was riveted by the fact that someone could make that amount of noise and not wake them self up. He remembered Bennet had mentioned something about Fearghal's snoring but had thought Bennet had been joking.

In the next cubicle, Wynne and Morrigan stirred. Alistair heard Morrigan muttering furiously and then Wynne appeared, her face set in a bleary frown

Wynne sighed, shaking her head, and marched over to the mattress Fearghal slept on. "Fearghal, turn over!" she snapped loudly.

Fearghal stiffened, then, murmuring gently, turned onto his side and was quiet.

Alistair watched in astonishment.

Wynne gave him a small smile. "When I was newly-harrowed I slept in a cubicle next to a dreadful snorer," she told him. She looked back at Fearghal, muttering, "Someone really ought to reset that boy's nose."

They turned back into the corridor. "You should get some more sleep," Alistair told Wynne.

The older woman shook her head ruefully. "I doubt I'll get back to sleep now. It's strange, but it seems that the older I get, the less I need."

Wynne settled herself on a stone bench against the wall and Alistair sat down beside her. "I remember seeing him at Ostagar," she told Alistair.

"Who? Fearghal?"

Wynne nodded. "I was helping out in the Infirmary. He came scrounging food for a prisoner; he said the man hadn't been fed in days. He seemed so... furious about it."

Alistair shook his head wonderingly.

"You seem surprised," noted Wynne.

Alistair huffed softly. "He always seems so angry, that's no surprise. But the prisoner... I just don't know what to make of him," confessed Alistair. "I've seen him beat a man to death and less than an hour later he was helping a lost child."

Wynne nodded. "I know what you mean. He's a man of contradictions. He fights like he wants to kill the whole world, yet when that blood mage survived earlier, he let her go. I wonder what he's so angry about?"

Alistair pulled a face. "Being alive, I think," he sighed.

"You mean Ostagar?"

Alistair shook his head. "He was like this when he arrived at Ostagar. All I know is that Duncan had gone to Highever to test a knight but ended up conscripting Fearghal instead."

"There were rumours just before the battle at Ostagar of treachery at Highever," mused Wynne. "It was all very vague, but I heard that the Couslands were betrayed and all at Highever were slaughtered."

Alistair was silent, trying to remember little things that Fearghal had let slip. "He said that Duncan had taken him from one massacre and marched him to another one _. 'Everything I ever cared about is gone.'_ " Alistair frowned. "We met another Highever man at Lothering. He said he'd had to tell Fearghal that his brother was dead."

Wynne clucked sympathetically. "Poor boy. I wonder if he has other family, elsewhere."

Alistair shook his head. "I don't think so. He's from Highever. He said Duncan had made an agreement with his father... his _dying_ father." Alistair felt a sudden rush of anger and resentment. _He's not the only person who's lost everything they care about!_

Wynne patted his hand. "It's hard to be the one left behind when so many we care about have died," she said softly.

Alistair nodded miserably. "I keep feeling that I should be handling it better. Duncan warned me, warned us all, that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle... I just didn't expect _everyone_ to die. I know I should be grateful to have survived, but I don't. I-I..." Alistair stopped, furiously blinking back tears.

Wynne squeezed Alistair's hand. "It may be a tired, old cliché, but time really does heal, Alistair. Honour your dead by doing your duty to the best of your ability and let time take care of the rest."

Alistair nodded. "I'm not sure my best is up to much but I _will_ try. Thank you, Wynne." He smiled at her. "Maybe you be telling this to Fearghal, too."

Wynne smiled at him. "If I thought he would listen, I might." She sighed heavily. "He wields his anger like his shield, but I think time will heal him too, eventually."

Alistair looked thoughtful. "Bennet told me that he was good at heart. I don't know, it's hard to see it sometimes... or even most of the time."

Wynne cocked her head at him. "But you have seen it sometimes?"

Alistair nodded. "I think so," he conceded.

"Then maybe all you have to do is be patient."

~o~O~o~

The second day was as bad as the first had been. They made slow progress up the tower, clearing each floor room by room. Fearghal found himself impressed with Alistair; his templar abilities were certainly useful in dealing with the demons, abominations and occasional blood mage that infested the tower. Wynne, too, proved invaluable. Unlike Morrigan, she didn't excel at offensive magic; instead her forte was healing. She not only healed their minor injuries with a mere twist of her hand and a murmur, but she also was able to use her magic to combat their fatigue. They were able to make faster progress with her aid than they might have done otherwise.

Wearily, the party climbed yet another flight of stairs. "Maferath's balls! How many more floors?" groaned Fearghal.

"We are almost at the top," sighed Wynne. "This floor is the templar quarters. Above this is the Harrowing Chamber."

Fearghal stepped into the corridor and looked around warily. This section appeared completely deserted. He beckoned the others. "More of the same, I suppose. We check each room."

Fearghal headed towards a door and pushed it open. He stiffened in surprise at the oddest sight he'd ever seen confronted him. A templar stood against the wall, his eyes glazed and unseeing, where he was having a bizarre conversation with... Fearghal shook his head. _Not a woman... some kind of demon?_

"A desire demon," murmured Wynne.

The demon turned to face them.

Alistair made a strangled sound as he took in the almost naked, feminine form. _Maker's breath! I thought Morrigan's outfit was skimpy but that's just..._ He swallowed nervously and hoped he wasn't blushing, although the heat in his face told him that he was.

"You are intruding upon a loving, intimate moment and I dislike disruptions," the demon informed them haughtily.

Fearghal snorted. "There's nothing loving or intimate here," he retorted scornfully. "What would a creature like you know of such things?"

The demon smiled and turned back to the enthralled templar. "I've given him what he always wanted. I saw his loneliness, his longing for a family that loved him," she argued.

Wynne turned to Fearghal. "She is feeding off his innermost desires and taking away his will. This... this is wrong!"

"No one else would have known his heart. He did not know it himself," protested the demon.

Fearghal frowned. "So you think you're doing a good thing?"

"We are partners. I give him what no-one else can and, through him, I experience what it is to be mortal."

Fearghal snorted. "I'll bet you have no more idea about what a family feels like, what love feels like than he does." he scoffed. "All you can do is give him a pale imitation of the real thing."

The demon whirled and confronted Fearghal, her hands shooting out to grasp his face. Fearghal went rigid, unable to pull away, his eyes drawn to hers.

"Oh yes, I see," she purred. "So much love, so much desire. Such a pity it is all gone. I could give them back to you... for a time. I could bring _him_ back."

At the strangled sob that broke from Fearghal, Alistair charged the demon, knocking her to the floor. Free of the demon's grip, Fearghal staggered, then reached for his sword and shield.

"Help! There are bandits at the door! They're going to murder the children!" screeched the demon.

The ensorcelled templar sprang into life, reaching for his sword. "They will not get past me!" he growled. He swung the huge two-hander at Alistair, who had his back to him. Fearghal swung his shield up, blocking the blow, giving Alistair a few precious seconds to turn and raise his shield.

Once Alistair had engaged the templar, Fearghal turned to the demon snarling. For the briefest moment he had wanted what she offered. He was furious with himself for his own weakness, and with her for perceiving it so easily.

"You'll die for that, bitch!" Rage burned, white-hot, through his veins. The demon was powerful, but she had prodded a deep wound in Fearghal that hadn't even begun to heal. Driven by pain he was relentless, barely slowed by the magic she threw at him. The demon backed away from him and Fearghal drove his sword through her body so hard he felt the tip strike the wall behind her.

Alistair had hoped that the demon's death would free the templar. He had been trying to merely hold the man at bay; however, as the templar's dream faded, the man howled in anguish, seemingly enraged by the loss of the illusion. Alistair was relieved when Fearghal joined him, Fearghal's fury a match for the templar's. With the demon gone, Morrigan was also able to turn her attention to the templar. The templar was no match for the three of them and soon lay dead at their feet.

Alistair cleaned his weapon, and started to re-sheathe it.

"Alistair... er... thanks."

Alistair looked at Fearghal in surprise. His fellow Warden looked uncomfortable and faintly embarrassed. Alistair shrugged, unsure what to say.

Fearghal frowned. "I'm not sure I could have... I mean, if you hadn't... intervened."

"It was nothing," murmured Alistair. He grinned sheepishly at Fearghal. "Anyway, I should be thanking you. If it hadn't been for you, he'd have cut me in two with that sword," he said, nodding his head at the templar's corpse.

Fearghal waved off Alistair's thanks. "We should get moving," he said, turning and heading out of the door.

Eventually the corridor opened out into a large hall. At the centre of the hall was a huge... thing. Fearghal stopped, appalled. He turned to Wynne.

"A demon?" he asked

"Wynne nodded. The creature was about eight feet tall, huge, fleshy and twisted. There was almost something human in the distorted face. The creature swung round to face them.

"Oh, look. Visitors. I'd entertain you but... too much effort involved," it drawled. Its voice was deep and hypnotic.

All of a sudden, Fearghal wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep; he couldn't remember ever having felt so tired. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Good, that will make you that much easier to kill," he growled, stifling a yawn.

The demon made a disappointed noise. "But why? Aren't you tired of all the violence in this world. I know I am," sighed the demon. "Wouldn't you just like to lay down and... forget about all this? Leave it all behind?"

 _'Yes... forget...'_ thought Fearghal.

Fearghal heard Alistair groan. "Can't... keep my eyes open," mumbled Alistair

"Resist. You must all resist, else we are all lost... " urged Wynne, her voice sleepy.

The demon leaned over Fearghal. "Why do you fight? You deserve more... You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you."

All Fearghal could do was watch the twisted face, helplessly, as it faded away into darkness.


	18. Chapter 18

Morrigan whirled on Flemeth. "Away! Away with you! I shall have no more of your pestering."

Flemeth looked at her reproachfully. "I am your _mother_ , do you not love me?"

Morrigan almost laughed out loud. The demon's illusion was pathetic, a presentation of what it thought Morrigan's mother should be, rather than what she actually was. "You are as much my mother as my little finger is the Queen of Ferelden. I know you, Fade Sprit. You cannot fool me."

"Are you more clever than your own, dear mother? Surely such pride must be punished?" Flemeth drew her arm back and slapped Morrigan's face hard. "There! That is for not showing respect."

Morrigan staggered under the blow, her cheek stinging. She smiled triumphantly at the demon. "That is more like it, but it is too little, too late, spirit."

She laughed, summoning her power and sent a blaze of lightning at the demon masquerading as Flemeth. As the lightning struck it, the demon's guise failed. Ice followed lightning, then Morrigan summoned a great stone fist that shattered the frozen demon.

Morrigan looked round and spotted a small pedestal. She didn't like the idea of using it; however, there seemed to be no other way out of this corner of the fade. Tentatively she stretched out her hand and touched it. Instantly she was transported to another part of the fade.

It took her some time but eventually she began to have a sense of how this demon's domain worked. She was thrilled to learn several new forms she could shape-shift into, all of which served her well in this part of the fade. Using the pedestals and portals she travelled the fade, utilising her new abilities to defeat several lesser demons. She would have to free her companions to defeat the master demon, though; that it maintained such rich and varying illusions was a testament to its power. Morrigan doubted she could best it alone, even with her new forms.

Morrigan studied the pedestal and touched one of the outer runes. She was surprised to find herself in what appeared to be the Circle Tower. The floor she was on appeared to be deserted. There were several open doors. Morrigan peered through each one cautiously, however she saw no one. There was just one door which was closed. Morrigan gathered her power and flung the door open.

~o~O~o~

Alistair knocked at the door of Senior Warden Aerik's office, wondering why he'd been summoned.

"Enter!"

Alistair pushed the door open and entered the room.

"Ah, Alistair. Come... sit, please."

Alistair sat and patiently waited to find out why he had been summoned.

"You know that several recruits have taken their Joining this morning, yes?"

Alistair nodded.

"We were lucky, most of them survived. One of them is from your native Ferelden."

"Ferelden?" Alistair gaped at Aerik. "You mean he travelled all the way _here_ to join the Grey Wardens?"

Aerik smiled. "Extraordinary, I know." He shrugged. "He said he had come here because he was searching for someone. Anyway, he is here and he has survived his Joining."

"I see," murmured Alistair, who didn't really, but was curious to know more about this mysterious Fereldan.

Aerik leaned back in his chair. "I want you to act as his mentor. I also had it in mind that he could room with you. He will find us very strange initially; I think it will make the transition easier if he has a fellow Fereldan to show him how things are done."

"Of course, ser."

"You will have much in common, I think. He is a former templar and a skilled warrior."

The smile froze on Alistair's face. He really, really hoped it wasn't someone he'd trained with at the monastery. _Maker! Please, please don't let it be Makinson._

"I've already arranged for Devan to move his things."

Alistair felt a thrill run through him. He liked Devan; he'd become a good friend in the short time Alistair had been at Weisshaupt, but Alistair was dying to know more about his new roommate. Alistair stood. "Was there anything else, ser?"

Aerik shook his head, dismissing Alistair with a wave of his hand and turning his attention back to the pile of paperwork on his desk.

As soon as Alistair left the room, he was kicking himself for not asking the new Warden's name. He shrugged. It probably wasn't anyone he knew anyway. He made his way carefully back along the maze of corridors to his room; he still got lost occasionally. He smiled to himself; accents and confusing layout aside, he loved it at Weisshaupt. He had been uncertain about coming here once the Blight had been defeated but he'd found the camaraderie, the sense of _belonging_ , that he'd had with the Grey Wardens in Ferelden before Ostagar.

Alistair paused at the door to his room, hearing someone moving about inside. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A tall man was standing at the far side of the room, arranging his armour on the stand that Devan had left empty. As Alistair closed the door behind him, clearing his throat, the man turned.

"Cullen!" Somehow, Cullen was the _last_ person had expected to see.

Cullen smiled. "Alistair. It's good to see you."

"What are you... why... ? Maker's breath!" Alistair had so many questions, he didn't know where to begin.

"They didn't tell you I was here?"

"No. They just said a former templar... from Ferelden." Alistair frowned. "Why a Grey Warden, Cullen? Why here?"

Cullen opened the chest at the foot of his bed, pulling clothes out of the two packs on his bed and stowing them neatly. His fair skin turned pink. "I remembered the way the Wardens fought in the tower. The way _you_ fought. I'd thought that the templars were the finest warriors there were, yet two Grey Wardens succeeded where dozens of templars had failed."

Cullen grabbed the two empty packs and stuffed them under the bed, then stood and faced Alistair.

"After the rebellion, I could barely stand the sight of a mage. There was an... incident. The Grand Cleric released me from my vows so I decided to become a Grey warden. I went to the Warden compound in Denerim and they told me you'd come here, so I decided to come here too."

At the mention of the rebellion in the tower, Alistair felt a sense of disquiet. Something was wrong but before he could try and work it out, Cullen was talking again. He stepped closer to Alistair. "I hope I didn't do the wrong thing," he said softly.

"N-no, not at all." Alistair tried to keep his voice steady. He bit his lip, hesitating for a moment, before plucking up his courage.

"I… er… never thanked you for sticking up for me that time... in the bath house."

"I think I should be the one thanking you," replied Cullen, his lips twitching in amusement.

Alistair frowned. "Thanking me? What for?"

"For giving me the perfect excuse to admire you so openly." Cullen's eyes dropped to Alistair's groin.

"Oh… " Alistair flushed, his mouth suddenly dry. He felt himself harden and moved to sit on his bed, hoping to conceal the telltale bulge he could feel growing in his breeches.

Cullen moved, blocking Alistair's way; Alistair ducked his head, embarrassed and silently cursing his body for giving him away.

"You watched me too, didn't you?" Cullen's voice was low and husky.

"I-I… " stammered Alistair, unable to lie and deny it, but unable to admit it either.

"I know you did," murmured Cullen.

Fearfully, Alistair raised his eyes to the taller man's, looking for the accusation, the disgust; instead, he saw lust. Cullen stepped closer and reached out, cupping the bulge in Alistair's breeches. Alistair went weak at the knees at the jolt of passion that blazed through him. He would have staggered if Cullen's free hand hadn't caught him, pulling him close.

Alistair gazed at Cullen's face, rapt, as the other templar's mouth descended. Soft lips brushed against his mouth and Alistair whimpered with longing, his hips jerking, pressing his aching groin into Cullen's hand. He barely knew what he was doing as his hands came up and cupped Cullen's face; all he knew was he couldn't let that mouth get away from him. Alistair groaned as Cullen's hand moved, then he was drowning in sensation as strong hands grabbed his buttocks, his groin grinding against Cullen's; Cullen's mouth devouring his own, tongue plunging, teeth nibbling.

Alistair almost fainted with shock as the door flew open so violently it bounced off the wall. Twisting in Cullen's arms, he turned to look. A dark-haired woman stood there. She looked vaguely familiar, but Alistair couldn't remember where he knew her from. Alistair was surprised, but relieved, that Cullen hadn't let him go; he wasn't sure he could have stood on his own, his legs trembling with a combination of desire and embarrassment. He looked up at Cullen. There was no shock or fear on Cullen's face, just frustration and anger; his eyes glittered dangerously. _He looks just like Fearghal._ The thought flitted through Alistair's mind and was gone before he could catch hold of it properly.

The woman smirked at them both. "Well, well, Alistair. 'Twould seem you _do_ appreciate handsome men after all."

"Don't listen to her," snarled Cullen. "This woman is a mage. Worse, she's an apostate! She's dangerous."

Alistair could sense the magic in the woman and she looked like no Circle mage he had ever seen before. She wasn't a Warden.

He shook his head, trying to make sense of what was happening, pulling away from Cullen. "Just a minute. What's she doing up here?" _How does she know my name?_

Cullen kept a possessive arm around Alistair's waist. "She must have overcome our brothers. She must die."

Alistair frowned and looked at the woman. "Who are you?"

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. "Truly, Alistair, I would have thought you disliked me enough to remember me. You ever succeed in convincing me that templars are indeed fools."

"I've told you, I'm not a templar, I'm a Grey Warden," shot back Alistair automatically.

"Indeed. And here you are, in the great Warden fortress in the Anderfels. Yet where is your fellow Warden, Fearghal?"

That name again. _Fearghal..._ A face started to form in Alistair's mind. Dark hair, angry blue eyes, a beard, not unlike Cullen's... He froze as memories came flooding back. The room faded and Alistair was clad in his dowdy splint mail armour. A bolt of lightning arced past Alistair, striking Cullen who yelped and jumped back. 'Cullen' flickered, giving Alistair a glimpse of the demon. Suppressing a shudder, Alistair drew his sword and shield and attacked.

Between the two of them, the demon didn't stand a chance. As the demon disappeared, Alistair looked stunned. "I can't believe it. How did I not see it earlier?"

Morrigan shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you're just not that intelligent."

Alistair flushed. "Yes, well. I don't suppose you'll be able to resist telling everyone how easily fooled I was."

Morrigan just smiled and led the way to the pedestal. She held out her hand. "Hold on tight. We need to find Wynne and Fearghal."

Alistair felt the world lurch and then he and Morrigan were standing outside a cottage. Alistair crept up to the window. Inside he could see Wynne moving around; a man sat at the table, his back to the window.

Alistair crept back to Morrigan. "It's Wynne," he told her. "She's not alone."

"I didn't think she would be, although I doubt she's in such a… compromising position as you were," smirked Morrigan.

Alistair felt the heat in his face and knew he was blushing.

~o~O~o~

Wynne picked up the basket of herbs she had picked early that morning and set about washing them. She had gathered enough to make a large batch of healing potions and poultices. Her mind wandered as she worked and she smiled as she reflected on how good life was.

As a young woman she had expected to live out her life within the confines of the tower. Then it had all changed. Maric had led the rebellion and driven the Orlesians from Ferelden. The mages had turned away with a sigh of resignation when Maric had proclaimed freedom for all, assuming that they were not included, but, incredibly, they had been. Wynne frowned, trying to recall exactly how he had managed to bring such a thing about, but it made her head ache.

A noise upstairs made her raise her head to the ceiling, smiling. Evain. Every day she thanked the Maker for him and the life they had made together. Wynne had been hesitant about leaving the tower; she had nowhere else to go, no family to return to. She had considered devoting her life to scholarship and teaching, after all, the tower would remain as a centre of learning. In her early thirties, she was no longer in the first flush of youth. There was no young man waiting to sweep her off her feet and Wynne held no illusions about men in the outside world; people in general would take a long time to lose their suspicion of mages.

Evain had been a templar in the tower for over ten years. She remembered when he'd first arrived. He'd been wide-eyed and a little wary, yet prepared to take the mages at face value, reserving judgements until he got to know them better. What had struck her most forcibly was how adamant that he'd been that his duty was to protect the mages, from themselves and from those who wished them ill, as much as it was to protect people from them.

He was one of the rare templars that seldom wore his helm. His wasn't a face to make maidens swoon, his features broad and plain, but as Wynne got to know him better, she had noticed the blue eyes that held such kindness, that often sparkled with humour or sparked with interest; the wide mouth that smiled so readily. He wasn't a chatterbox, being more of a listener than a talker, but he had a deep, melodic voice and when he spoke, his words were always slow and considered.

Wynne had liked him from the first and could never pinpoint exactly when that liking had changed into something deeper, for it had been such a gradual process. She remembered the pain and horror of the realisation, though. The knowledge that although Evain was the humane face of the templars, he _was_ a templar and took his vows and his responsibilities seriously. She had buried her feelings and taken to avoiding him. If he noticed, he never mentioned it.

Freedom for the mages had brought changes for the templars too, the vows relating to chastity were abandoned. Templars would be allowed to marry and marriages to mages were even subtly encouraged. It was some months after the proclamation that Evain had come to her, asking for he help. He explained that he had been offered a post at Gwaren, serving the new Teyrn, Loghain Mac Tir. He wanted to take the post but wished to be free of the lyrium addiction that had gradually taken hold of him over the years.

Trying to hide her heartbreak, she had agreed. With a heavy heart, she'd had to explain the risks, that after so long, he risked insanity. He'd listened quietly, then gazed at her steadily, and stated, "I would be free, Wynne. Truly free." She had been unable to refuse; who would understand that better than a mage?

It had taken a month. Two weeks of gradually reducing the dose until the withdrawal symptoms began to appear, then a further two weeks of nursing him while he raved, strapped to an iron bedstead, for his own safety and hers. He'd had lucid moments where he could recall his rantings, demented words that had revealed his fears and hopes. They'd talked quietly for hours during these times.

Then it was time for him to leave. When he'd asked her to marry him and go with him to Gwaren, she hadn't hesitated. Two years into their marriage, the Maker had blessed them with a son. Gaven was now grown and starting his own family. Wynne shook her head in amazement. She was now a grandmother. Whoever could have imagined such a thing thirty years ago?

Wynne gently dried the herbs, looking up as Evain's heavy tread sounded on the stairs. The blond hair had turned white, as had her own. He carried a paunch but was still muscular and strong. More importantly, his blue eyes still sparkled with humour as he greeted her with a peck on the cheek.

"Good morning, old woman. You're the early bird today." His voice was gravelly with sleep, the deep rumbling tones almost a tactile thing she could feel on her skin rather than hear with her ears.

Wynne snorted. "Some of us have things to do, old man," she said indicating the herbs. She abandoned them to start bustling around making porridge and tea.

Evain chuckled and sat himself at the table, pushing the plants to one side, waiting patiently for his breakfast to appear. Wynne looked up at the window as she turned back to the table, setting a mug of tea down in front of her husband. She frowned at a flicker of movement.

"What's the matter, love?" Evain looked up at her, concerned.

"I thought for a moment someone was at the window. It was probably the shadow of a bird."

Evain twisted in his chair to look. As he did so, there was a knock at the door.

Wynne opened the door to the strange couple she'd never seen before. A tall, handsome young man in splint mail and a woman, clearly a mage, wearing the most bizarre outfit Wynne had ever seen.

The young man spoke first, his voice soft and hesitant. "Er... Wynne... you need to come with us... "

"I beg your pardon? Do I know you, young man?" demanded Wynne, astonishment making her voice more tart that usual.

The young man looked helplessly at his companion.

"You're in the fade; this is a dream. Pull yourself together!" snapped the woman impatiently.

Wynne heard Evain get up and come and stand behind her in the doorway.

"Wynne? Who are these people?"

Wynne glanced round at him and shrugged. "I have no idea," she told him.

"It's me, Alistair. I'm a Grey Warden. I came with Fearghal to the tower... there was a rebellion... "

"What kind of mage are you? Does your Circle teach you nothing? Can you not tell this is the Fade?" interrupted Morrigan.

"The Fade?" Wynne looked around confused. She tried to remember the young man, the companion he spoke of but her head felt thick and muzzy. "It's difficult to focus. It feels as though something is... stopping me from concentrating."

Alistair reached out his hand to Wynne. "Come on, being away from here should make you feel much better."

She nodded and stepped towards the door.

"No! Wynne, it's a trick!"

Wynne raised a hand to her head, trying to think. Evain's voice, that deep rumble so familiar, but there was something else too, something underneath it. The young man had mentioned a rebellion but that had been thirty years ago. _Uldred._ The name swam into her mind, she grasped it before it could float away. Uldred. They'd been to... _Ostagar! There was a battle. Blight... darkspawn..._ Wynne almost threw herself through the door. As she did so, Morrigan gathered her power and Alistair drew his sword and shield.

Wynne stood, watching the cottage fade as the demon concentrated its energy on battling the warrior and the mage. She clasped her hands together, tightly in an effort to still their trembling. Evain. She hadn't thought of him in _such_ a long time. She blinked back tears as she wondered if their son had been allowed to keep the name she'd given him. Then it was over.

Morrigan led the way back to the pedestal and took Wynne's hand. "We need to find Fearghal. Wynne, take Alistair's hand."

Wynne did as instructed, not trusting herself to speak, and Morrigan touched the pedestal.

The landscape lurched again and they found themselves on open ground. The sun was high and bright and a cool breeze ruffled their hair. Alistair looked around curiously. On his left an imposing fortress stood on the hill, to his right the land dropped away to the sea. Ahead of them, Fearghal sat under a tree, leaning back against it. They walked towards him, then Wynne and Morrigan both stopped. There was a man with Fearghal, lying on the ground, with his head resting on Fearghal's thigh.

Morrigan frowned. "This is... different."

Wynne nodded, looking worried. "This is not like my dream. That was hazy, incomplete somehow."

"Mine too, now I think about it," agreed Alistair.

"I think... " said Wynne, "that our dreams were constructed from our imagination, from our hopes or our fears. This... this has been made from his memories. A place he knows well."

"Does that make a difference?" asked Alistair.

Wynne considered his question for a moment. "I don't think so," she told him. "However, it will seem more plausible to him; he may be harder to convince that this isn't real. If this represents all that he has loved and lost, he may not even care if it's real or not."

Warily, they made their way towards Fearghal. All of his attention was focussed on the young man whose head lay in his lap. Alistair's mouth went dry as he took in the look on Fearghal's face, a look so tender and full of open adoration. As Alistair watched, almost holding his breath, Fearghal caressed the man's face and murmured something to him, smiling. Fearghal bent his head and the man raised himself on his elbows, lifting his head to meet the mouth that was descending. The kiss was slow and sensual and Alistair felt a pang of envy to see it.

"Oh my!" exclaimed Wynne softly.

They stood a little way off, reluctant to intrude on such an intimate moment.

The moment was broken by a high-pitched yell and they turned to see a small boy running down the hill. The two men broke apart abruptly and stood up. Alistair looked curiously at the man with Fearghal. He was of a height with Fearghal and, although not armoured, clearly as broad and muscular. His head was wreathed in bright red hair that blazed in the sun and, as he muttered something to Fearghal which made him laugh, the man's smile was free and open; green eyes sparkled with humour. _Is this Rory?_

"Uncle Fearghal, look!" yelled the boy, waving a small wooden sword as he raced towards the men.

As the child reached them, Fearghal caught him and swung him up into the air laughing as the boy shrieked with excited joy. Fearghal set the boy down, looking behind him at the laughing couple that followed him down the hill.

"Papa said that you might start teaching me how to use it, while he's away with the army," said the boy, gazing up at Fearghal hopefully.

Fearghal grinned down at him. "I might, if it will keep you out of mischief," he agreed. "I'll give you a few lessons and then we'll turn you loose to spar with Ser Gilmore, here."

The child laughed delightedly and jabbed his sword at Gilmore's belly. The red-haired man groaned, then staggered around before collapsing dramatically.

The man and woman arrived at the bottom of the hill, laughing at Gilmore's antics. The man grinned down at the boy. "Don't let Ser Gilmore fool you, Oren, he's not so easily bested. Your Uncle Fearghal's the only warrior at Highever that can still beat him." He grinned at Gilmore slyly, adding "And if you could do something about that in the next week, Gilmore, I'd be very grateful. I've got five sovereigns in Fenwick's sweepstake."

Fearghal burst out laughing at that. "So much for family loyalty, Fergus!"

"If I win, I'll buy you a couple of pints to drown your sorrows in when Gilmore gives you a good hiding," offered Fergus.

"Have you really never beaten Uncle Fearghal, Ser Gilmore?" the boy asked.

"Well, I did once but it was many years ago," smiled Gilmore.

"Yes, and I still bear the proof," muttered Fearghal, rubbing his bent nose.

"Well, if you two could teach Oren how to use a sword and shield without spoiling his good looks, I'd be very grateful," retorted Fergus, grinning.

"Hey! I've been told that it's very... distinguished," protested Fearghal, adopting a hurt tone.

Fergus snorted. "Mother just told you that to make you feel better."

"We need to stop this," muttered Wynne. "The longer he stays, the harder it will be for him to leave." Wynne marched towards the group, with Morrigan close behind. Alistair followed reluctantly; he had seen glimpses of this Fearghal but he had disappeared so quickly. A part of Alistair didn't want this to end, he wanted to carry on watching this Fearghal who laughed and joked, who didn't seem to have an ounce of anger or bitterness in him.

The group turned towards Wynne and Morrigan as they approached. All looked curious and interested except Fearghal. Alistair watched his face go flat, his eyes guarded. _He knows! He knows this isn't real._

Wynne obviously reached the same conclusion. "Fearghal, it's time to go," she told him firmly.

Fearghal sighed and nodded. He looked around sadly, then made to move towards Wynne.

"Fearghal, wait! Who are these people?" Gilmore's hand shot out and he grasped Fearghal's arm, trying to hold him back.

Fearghal stopped and looked at Gilmore, his face full of regret. "Rory, I-I... have to go with them."

"But you can't! We need you here. If you leave, we'll die!" protested Gilmore.

Alistair drew his sword as he watched Fearghal almost gasping for breath. Fearghal's voice was full of pain as he nearly choked on his words. "Y-you're already dead, Rory."

Gilmore's face twisted with fury. "We won't let you leave! You are ours!" he yelled, the voice distorting as the demon's nature surfaced.

Fearghal yanked his arm free of Gilmore's grip and strode towards Wynne, Morrigan and Alistair, drawing his sword and hefting his shield. Morrigan drew on her power and sent a blast of chain lightning at the demons. As the spell hit them, they shimmered and assumed their true appearance. As his lover and family disappeared, Fearghal screamed with rage and threw himself at the nearest demon. As the demons died, the landscape around them flickered and dissolved; the facsimile of Highever they had created from Fearghal's memories vanishing until all four demons were dead and only the plain, brown landscape of the fade remained.

"Let's get out of here," muttered Fearghal.


	19. Chapter 19

Fearghal awoke to the sound of voices. Someone shook his arm.

"Fearghal, wake up!" Wynne's voice tugged at him

Fearghal struggled to open his eyes. His head felt woolly, his body drained. An image of sitting under a tree with Rory flashed into his mind and he pushed it away automatically, even though it didn't produce the usual pain. Fearghal sighed, frowning; he felt oddly... flat. He sat up and looked around him. A wrinkled, fleshy mess was all that was left of the demon they'd defeated in the Fade. Nearby lay a mage, he looked as if he was asleep.

"Why hasn't he woken up, like us?" asked Fearghal.

Wynne shook her head sadly. "He was in the sloth demon's thrall for too long, poor Niall."

Morrigan bent over the mage, rifling through his robes. "I met him in the Fade. He said he had a spell that would help to resist the blood mages, The Litany of... "

"The Litany of Adralla?" exclaimed Wynne. "That would be useful indeed. It interrupts the casting of mind control spells."

Fearghal climbed wearily to his feet as Morrigan withdrew a rolled scroll from the mages robes. She stood and handed it to him. He merely grunted as he took it from her and tucked it into his armour.

"Which way to the Harrowing Chamber?" asked Fearghal.

Wynne pointed to a door at the far side of the hall and Fearghal headed towards it. Wynne caught up with him.

"Are you all right, Fearghal?" she asked him quietly.

"I'm fine," he snapped. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and saw the disbelief on her face. "I just feel a bit... drained, somehow."

Wynne nodded. "Your dream was particularly vivid; I think the demon must have used a lot of your life force to create it." She murmured and sent a stream of rejuvenating magic flowing through him.

Fearghal stood a little taller as his languor diminished. "Thank you," he acknowledged grudgingly.

It didn't take them long to reach the Harrowing Chamber, there were few demons left in the tower. As they reached the end of the corridor they could see that the room beyond was filled with a strange glow. Fearghal looked at the others questioningly but they just shrugged back at him. All readied themselves as Fearghal stepped through the door, his shield raised. Ahead of them, at the bottom of the stair to the Harrowing Chamber, was a templar enclosed in a large glowing bubble of energy.

As the group stepped into the room the templar sobbed and fell to his knees. "Enough visions!" he begged. "If anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this game."

Alistair approached the bubble, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He dropped to one knee before the templar. "Cullen?"

"You! Always they show me you!" he howled. "Filthy blood mages... getting in my head... I will not break... I'd rather die!"

Alistair flushed, but tried again. "Cullen, calm down. You're safe now."

"Silence!" screamed Cullen before starting to sob. "I'll n-not listen to an-anything you s-say." He groaned and sunk his head in his hands, struggling for control. Steadying himself, he climbed to his feet. "Now begone!" he commanded.

Alistair stood too. He looked back helplessly at the others.

"Still here? But that's always worked before." breathed Cullen in wonder.

"I'm real," Alistair assured him. "It's me, Alistair. Do you remember me?"

Cullen grimaced. "Yes, I remember you!" he snapped. "They used to call you... Lord Alistair," he sniggered nastily.

Alistair stepped back as if he'd been burned, his face flushing.

Fearghal had been watching the exchange curiously. He saw the hurt flare in Alistair's eyes at the templar's jibe.

He stepped forward. "If you two have quite finished... reminiscing. I'm Fearghal, a Grey Warden like Alistair. We're here to help you."

"Did Greagoir send you? How... how did you get here?"

"We came to ask the Tower to honour their treaty to aid the Wardens. Where are the surviving mages?"

Cullen pointed to the Harrowing Chamber. "In there, with Uldred. You have to kill him; kill them all for what they've done." His face twisted in anger. "They caged us like animals, looking for ways to break us. I'm the only one left. They turned some into... monsters. There was nothing I could do!"

"Where are Irving and the other mages?" repeated Fearghal.

Cullen looked confused. "What others? What are you talking about?"

"Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred. Where are they?" asked Wynne.

"They're _all_ in the Chamber. The sounds coming out of there... oh, Maker... " sobbed Cullen.

"We must hurry," urged Wynne. "They are in grave danger."

"You can't save them. You don't know what they've become," protested Cullen.

Fearghal frowned. "I don't understand."

"They've been surrounded by b-blood m-mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts," screamed Cullen throwing himself against the barrier and bouncing off it. "You must kill them, kill them all! You can't risk a blood mage surviving. It's the only way!"

"I am _not_ going to slaughter everyone in there without even knowing what's going on," argued Fearghal.

Fearghal shook his head. Arguing with this half-crazed templar was fruitless. He headed up the steps to the Harrowing Chamber and hesitated at the door, turning to the others.

"Ready?" he asked. At their nods and murmurs of assent he pushed the door open and started up the stairs that lay beyond. The chamber at the top of the tower was huge. Several mages lay or sat on the floor, clearly exhausted. At the far side of the chamber stood the bald mage that Fearghal remembered from the war council.

Uldred smiled wolfishly at them. "I bid you welcome. Care to join in our... revels?"

"Uldred." said Fearghal, his face flat.

"Oh, very observant," sneered the mage. "I'm quite impressed you're still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants."

"Every last one of them," agreed Fearghal. "And now we're here to kill you, Uldred."

The mage laughed. "Uldred? He is gone. I am Uldred and yet not Uldred. I am _more_ than he was." He sighed petulantly. "Oh, fight if you must. It will just make my victory all the sweeter."

Fearghal drew his shield and sword from his back as the mage shimmered in front of him, then transformed into something monstrous. The creature was huge, at least as big as an ogre. Fearghal took an involuntary step back. Several abominations descended on the group.

"Alistair! Your turn to dance, I think!" yelled Fearghal. "I'll entertain his friends. Morrigan, with me!" Fearghal smashed his shield into the face of an abomination, sending it staggering backwards. He plunged his sword into what passed for its torso.

A blow from behind him sent Fearghal stumbling forwards, fighting to stay on his feet. As he turned to face the abomination that had struck him he heard Wynne shout, "The Litany, use it now!"

Fearghal sprinted past the abomination to the far side of the chamber, fumbling for the scroll he'd stuffed into his armour. He yanked it free and shook it out, then gaped at it; it was written in some strange language he'd never seen before. The remaining abominations caught up with him and one of them ripped the scroll from his hand. As it did so, the Litany burst into flames at its touch. Fearghal howled in frustration, swinging his shield at the thing's head. He felt a crunch of bone as his shield connected and the creature's skull collapsed.

The third abomination suddenly froze, coated in ice, and Fearghal smashed his shield against it, shattering it. Fearghal turned and headed towards the huge demon in the centre of the chamber. Alistair was holding his own against the towering creature, thanks to Wynne's help. Bane had sunk his teeth into one of its legs and hung on doggedly. Out of the corner of his eye Fearghal saw something move. One of the mages transformed before his eyes into yet another abomination. It started to shamble towards Wynne and Morrigan.

Yelling a warning, Fearghal ran across the chamber, desperate to get between the abomination and the mages. Morrigan looked up and cast a spell at the abomination. Fearghal wasn't sure what it was but the creature slowed considerably and he was able to kill it easily. He looked round and saw light pulsing around yet another mage at the side of the room. He ran towards it, reaching it as it transformed. Before it even had a chance to move he swing his shield, knocking it off balance. He followed up with several more swings finally knocking it to the ground; he thrust his sword through its neck.

Flickering, pulsing light alerted him and he turned and watched helplessly as the last mage, an old man, transformed into an abomination. Raging with frustrated fury, he ran across to it and skewered it on his sword. He looked back at the centre of the room. The huge demon was slowing, Bane had torn the back of one leg to ribbons and it moved unsteadily, fighting to stay upright. Fearghal felt a surge of energy pulse through him and silently thanked Wynne. With a roar, he raced across the chamber and sank his sword through the demon's leg. With a shriek of pain, it started to topple. Alistair leaped back and, as it hit the floor, buried his blade in its throat.

"The Litany, why didn't you use it?" demanded Wynne angrily.

Fearghal bridled. "I would have done if I'd been able to read it!" he snarled.

Wynne's eyes widened in surprise. "It was written in Arcanum?" She looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise... "

"It's too late now," growled Fearghal.

The group swung around at a noise from the stairs. Cullen climbed them unsteadily. He reached the top and stared around the chamber.

"You did it," he murmured. "I feel almost sorry for them, but it had to be done."

"No it didn't," snapped Wynne. "We failed, but at least this is over."

"I've had enough of this tower. It's time to leave," said Fearghal.

Cullen nodded. "Greagoir will want to know that the situation has been resolved. I'm sure he'll be very pleased."

Fearghal snorted and strode across the chamber.

The journey down the tower was much faster than their slow two-day progress up it. Fearghal hammered on the great metal door, yelling, "It's the Grey Wardens. The revolt is over and the tower is cleared."

After a moment the door opened to reveal Greagoir. "Where is your proof, Warden? I will not risk leaving the doors open."

"Will you believe one of your own men?"

Cullen stepped forward. "Accept my word as proof, ser. All the mages are dead."

Greagoir nodded. "Very well, Cullen."

He looked past Fearghal, Alistair and Cullen. "Wynne, I am sure you were instrumental in resolving the situation in the tower. You have always been a respected member of the Circle and it is now in need of a first enchanter. I can think of no-one more suitable for this position. Will you accept it?"

Wynne chuckled grimly. "As I am the only senior enchanter left, your options seems to be limited. However, I can't accept. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life tiptoeing around the Chantry. If they will have me, I would prefer to remain in the company of the Grey Wardens."

Alistair and Fearghal both whirled, startled. "What?"

"I do not want to see another failure like Ostagar. The darkspawn must be defeated, and I think I can help."

Greagoir frowned. "Are you sure? The Circle needs you, Wynne."

Wynne snorted. "There is no Circle left to speak of. I will return if... _when_ the Blight is stopped."

Fearghal glanced at Alistair, lifting his eyebrow. Alistair flushed, suddenly nervous. _He's asking my opinion?_ Straightening slightly, Alistair thought quickly. _She's sensible and a very good healer... maybe she could help Arl Eamon._

At Alistair's slight nod Fearghal said, "You will be a valued member of this group, Wynne."


	20. Chapter 20

The table was groaning with food; Alistair and Fearghal fell on it like men who hadn't eaten in a month. Morrigan, Wynne, Leliana and Sten grabbed as much as they needed, quickly. They were learning that if they didn't, the two Wardens would quickly demolish everything within reach. The accommodations offered by The Spoiled Princess were basic but it was clean and well kept and, more importantly, the food was excellent.

The Innkeeper had been able to offer them two large rooms, one for the women and one for the men. He'd also informed them about the small bathhouse at the rear of the Inn. It had been decided that the women would bathe in their room and the men would use the bath house. The Innkeeper had been nervous when Morrigan had informed him that cold water could be brought up for their baths, that she would heat it, then relief had taken over.

"So, Alistair," purred Morrigan, "the templar, Cullen. You knew him well?"

Alistair almost choked, turning bright red. "No, I didn't," he mumbled.

Morrigan's eyebrows rose. "Really? I got quite a different impression. What were his words again? _'You! Always they show me you!'_ He appeared to know _you_."

"I knew him well enough to put a name to the face. I didn't think he knew I was alive," snapped Alistair.

"Ah, so sad," sighed Morrigan. "Unrequited love..."

Alistair just gaped at her, his eyes wide.

"Leave it, Morrigan," growled Fearghal.

Morrigan ignored him and continued, "He said they called you 'Lord Alistair'. Why was that, I wonder?"

Alistair flinched at the nickname, then almost jumped out of his skin as Fearghal's fist smashed down on the table.

"Enough, Morrigan!" he roared. "What happened in the tower, stays in the tower."

Morrigan opened her mouth to protest, only to be interrupted by the nervous Innkeeper, who hovered nearby. "Ser, the water is ready in the bath house."

Fearghal nodded and Alistair fled gratefully, heading upstairs to shed his armour and collect a change of clothes.

Alistair paused at the top of the stairs as he heard Morrigan say, "... defending the templar. You like him no more than I."

"I don't like cats much either, but I won't stand by and watch someone tormenting one," retorted Fearghal.

"Oh, so Alistair's a defenceless kitten?" scoffed Morrigan.

"That's not what I meant and you know it, Morrigan. You belittle Alistair at every turn and it's neither witty nor entertaining; in fact, it's getting downright tedious."

Morrigan snorted and Alistair heard a chair scrape across the floor.

Alistair continued to his room and started to strip off his armour. He wasn't sure what to make of Fearghal's defence. Part of him was relieved; he found Morrigan difficult to deal with. Part of him burned with humiliation that Fearghal had felt it necessary to defend him; he knew that if he'd told Morrigan to shut up she would merely have laughed at him. The comparison to a tormented cat wasn't flattering either. He sighed and rummaged in his pack for clean clothes, then headed downstairs, brightening at the thought of a hot bath.

Alistair sank back into the hot water with a sigh of relief. He lazed for a minute, then sat up and started to wash his hair. A blast of cold air blew over him as the door opened. He turned his head and saw Fearghal, arms full of clean clothes and washing gear. Alistair felt himself flush. _This is just like when Cullen..._ He shook his head and started to rinse the soap out of his hair. Cullen was the _last_ person he needed to think about now.

Alistair screwed his eyes up tight as he sluiced water over his head, hoping that by the time he was done Fearghal would be in the bath. He opened his eyes to see that Fearghal, having stripped off his shirt, was shaving, frowning in concentration at the small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall.

As he finished, Fearghal half-turned to Alistair and waved the razor. "I'll leave that there for you. I assume you don't have... ?"

"No," confirmed Alistair. "Thanks."

As Fearghal sat on the rickety wooden bench and started to pull of his boots, Alistair lay back in the hot water, closing his eyes, suddenly embarrassed at the thought of watching Fearghal strip his clothes off.

"You shouldn't let her get to you, you know."

Alistair's eyes flew open. "Who? Morrigan?" He swallowed nervously as Fearghal stripped off his breeches, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

Fearghal nodded. "She needles you because she knows she can get a rise out of you." Clad in just his small clothes, Fearghal reached up and pulled the little leather thong from the braid he normally wore tucked behind his ear, dropping it next to the discarded razor.

Alistair snorted. "What do you suggest I do? I suspect that if I banged the table and yelled her, she'd wet herself laughing."

Fearghal shrugged, fingers working the hair in his braid free. "Just ignore her. If she wants a reaction, it'll drive her mad if she doesn't get one." The longer, shoulder-length hank of hair fell forward, softening his face.

Alistair's mouth went dry as he watched Fearghal just standing there in his small clothes. His hands itched to brush over the dark hair covering the other man's chest. He tried to keep his breathing steady as Fearghal pulled off his small clothes and dropped them on top of his breeches. His eyes widened as he realised that Fearghal was circumcised. _He's a noble? Who... ? A Bann's son, sent to squire at Highever?_

Fearghal stepped into the bath and lay back with a groan of pleasure that made the hair on the back Alistair's neck stand on end. Fearghal let himself slip down the bath and until his head was under the water; he stayed under for so long, Alistair was starting to get worried, when he pushed himself back up and looked across at Alistair. Fearghal flushed slightly at the bemused look on Alistair's face.

"Stupid habit," he mumbled. "We used to do it as kids... see who could stay under the longest."

"I see," said Alistair, biting his cheek in an effort not to laugh. The image of a young Fearghal holding his breath in his bathwater was both absurd and endearing; that the adult Fearghal still did it was downright amusing.

Fearghal frowned. "You grew up in a monastery full of boys; you didn't do things like that?" he demanded.

The laughter died within Alistair. "No. Nothing like that." He stood up and got out of the bath, reaching for his towel. Whatever mischief the young initiates had got up to in the monastery had never included him; he was 'Lord Alistair', ever the outsider. Alistair dried himself briskly and chanced a look at Fearghal. Fearghal's eyes were on his groin. Fearghal's eyes lifted and met Alistair's; Alistair could see that he now understood the nickname Cullen had revealed and he waited for the inevitable jibe. When it didn't come, for a brief moment he considered telling Fearghal the truth, but then Fearghal turned away, reaching for his soap, and the moment was gone.

~o~O~o~

The morning was cold but bright as they set off from the Spoiled Princess. The group was in good spirits following a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast. Alistair walked tall in the set of templar armour, gifted to him by Greagoir. The Knight-Commander had also given them a tent from the templar stores, in addition to the equipment he'd provided for Wynne; Fearghal had pounced on it with glee, leaving Alistair unsure how he felt about that. That Fearghal had agreed to travel to Redcliffe now that they had a healer with them, had cheered Alistair up no end.

Fearghal led alongside Sten, while Bane explored the way ahead of them, occasionally running back to his master; Wynne, Morrigan and Leliana were at the centre with Alistair bringing up the rear. Alistair watched them curiously. Fearghal seemed content to travel in silence with the stoic Sten, although he occasionally turned his head to speak to the taciturn giant. Leliana and Wynne chatted while Morrigan scoffed and glared at them both; the elder mage and the lay sister seemed immune to her taunts, answering them with smiles or ignoring them completely. Alistair smiled as the witch grew more petulant. _Maybe Fearghal's right, ignoring Morrigan will get right up her nose._

They'd walked for several hours, the sun now high in the sky, when a woman came running up the road. Alistair felt the tingle of magic, quite distinct from Morrigan and Wynne.

"Help! Bandits! Please, come quickly!" the woman shrieked, then turned and fled back down the road.

Fearghal and Sten started down the road after her, drawing their weapons.

"Stop!" yelled Alistair, running after them.

Fearghal turned, a look of irritation flashing across his face.

"She's a mage," explained Alistair. "It's a... "

"Trap," finished Fearghal, understanding. He grinned wickedly. "Then let's spring it! Morrigan, Leliana... take down any archers they may have; Alistair, handle the mage."

Fearghal started along the road again, the group close behind him. As they rounded the bend they could see overturned wagons and dead oxen blocking the way. There were a few bandits, just standing, waiting. The woman hurried up to one of them and nodded. Their leader, a an exotic-looking, slender man gestured with his hand and more armed figures emerged from behind the wagons, while others ran up the steep banks at the side of the road. There was a creak and a groan and Fearghal's group turned to see a large tree sway; they leaped forwards as it gave a loud crack and toppled across the road behind them, effectively cutting off any retreat.

"The Grey Warden dies here!" yelled the leader as Fearghal charged forward toward him.

Alistair ran for the mage and discharged a white flash of power at her that left her staggering; he knocked her back with his shield then ran her through. Alistair looked up and saw Fearghal battling with the bandit leader while Sten swung his sword in a huge arc, cleaving lumps out of anyone else who tried to get near. Fearghal swung his shield, but the leader, an elf, was so quick, that hardly any of the blows connected. The elf's blades flashed, forcing Fearghal into a more defensive style of fighting. Alistair started to move towards them when Fearghal punched forward with his shield, catching the elf in the chest, the force of the blow knocking him off balance. As the elf lurched backwards, Alistair swung his shield at the back of the elf's head; the elf sank to the ground.

Thankfully, the rest of the bandits weren't nearly as able as their leader. Once he was down they seemed to lose their nerve and much of the fight went out of them. They were certainly no match for the Wardens and their group, who dispatched them methodically.

Fearghal crouched down by the fallen bandit leader and started to search him. He was certain that this was no bandit; the ambush had been too well organised for common outlaws, plus the man's accent had been familiar. He realised with a start that the man was not dead, just out cold. The man carried nothing except his weapons, which only made Fearghal more suspicious.

Fearghal called Wynne over. "Can you heal him?"

Wynne nodded, frowning.

"Heal him?" burst out Alistair. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because I want to question him," replied Fearghal, his eyes cold. "He's no ordinary bandit. Get some rope; I want him tied up before Wynne wakes him."

Leliana cut some lengths of rope from the wagon and stepped forward, holding them out to Fearghal.

Fearghal threw the elf's weapons aside, then bound his hands and feet tightly. He nodded at Wynne. "Wake him up."

The elf groaned as his eyelids fluttered. Fearghal leaned down and dragged him over to one of the upturned wagons and sat him leaning against his side.

"Wake up!" Fearghal prodded the elf with his foot.

The elf's eyelids fluttered open, revealing brown eyes. He gazed up at Fearghal showing no sign of fear or anxiety at his predicament.

"I rather thought I would wake up dead, but I see you haven't killed me yet."

"That could easily be rectified," growled Fearghal.

The elf smirked at him. "Of that I have no doubt. You are most skilled; however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?"

"I'll ask the questions," snapped Fearghal.

"Ah, so I'm to be interrogated? Let me save you some time." The elf flashed a broad smile at Fearghal. "My name is Zevran; Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows."

Zevran stifled his surprise at Fearghal's nod, realising he was confirming the Warden's suspicion; the crows were not widely know in Ferelden, and he hadn't expected the Warden to know of them.

"I was brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens." Zevran pulled a face. "Which I have failed at, sadly."

"Who hired you to kill us?"

Zevran smiled. _So blunt, this curt Warden._ "A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, his name was."

"Does that mean you're loyal to Loghain?" demanded Fearghal.

Zevran masked his anxiety with nonchalance, aware that his answer could mean the difference between life or death. He shook his head, smiling. "I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?"

Fearghal made no reply, just crossed his arms and regarded the elf steadily. Zevran forced himself to relax. His voice was steady as he explained, indifferently, "I was contracted to perform a service. Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him."

Fearghal squatted down, never taking his eyes off the elf. "But you have not yet completed that service... " he pointed out softly.

Zevran didn't blink. "I have _failed_ that service," he corrected, hoping that this Warden knew enough about the Crows to understand the difference. He shrugged again, smiling ruefully. "But that is between Loghain and the Crows; and between the crows and myself."

Fearghal grinned wolfishly. "And between you and me."

"Isn't that what we're establishing now," asked Zevran, grinning back at him.

Fearghal stood abruptly. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Zevran chuckled. "I wasn't paid for silence." He smiled slyly at Fearghal, adding, "Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

Fearghal snorted. "Were you paid to talk my ear off then?"

"Consider it something I'm throwing in for free." Zevran looked at Fearghal carefully; the blue eyes were less hard than they had been. "I've a proposal for you... if you're of a mind."

Fearghal's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The blue eyes were wary again as they bored into the elf's brown eyes. "I'm listening."

"I failed to kill you. If you don't kill me, the crows will." Zevran noted Fearghal's head nodding; this wasn't news to him.

"The thing is," continued Zevran, "I like living. You are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause, so... let me serve you instead."

Fearghal burst out laughing. "You must think I'm royally stupid," he chuckled.

"I think you're royally tough to kill," shot back Zevran.

Fearghal straightened his face. "You might not be loyal to Loghain, but what about the Crows?"

"I was bought by the Crows from the slave market when I was a child. They've had more than their money's worth out of me." Zevran saw the look of scowl that flashed across Fearghal's face at the mention of the slave market. "The only way out of the Crows is to sign up with someone they can't touch."

"We can't pay you," warned Fearghal and it took all Zevran's self-control to keep the smile of triumph from showing on his face.

"I'd rather take my chances with you. Even if I were to kill you now, the Crows would probably kill me on principle for failing the first time."

"Why should I want your service?" asked Fearghal, stalling for time. In truth, he thought the Crow would be an excellent addition to their group... _if_ they could trust him. He remembered the hushed awe of Oriana's voice as she'd told stories of the Crows. In Antiva, their prowess and skill as assassins was legendary.

"Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could warn you if the Crows attempt something more... sophisticated, although it will take them a while to learn that my attempt has failed." Zevran sensed the Warden's indecision and decided to take a chance. He smiled broadly at Fearghal. "I also know a great many jokes, twelve massage techniques and six different card games."

Fearghal's lips twitched. If nothing else, he admired the Antivan's brazen cheek. "What do you want in return?"

"Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you," quipped Zevran, grinning. "If, somewhere down the line, you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I will go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?"

"Will you swear your loyalty?" asked Fearghal, watching the assassin.

"I will swear it," agreed Zevran, meeting Fearghal's gaze unflinchingly.

"Very well, I will accept your offer."

Fearghal stooped and pulled Zevran to his feet as Alistair burst out, "What? You're taking the assassin with us now? Is that really a good idea?"

Fearghal glared at Alistair. "If you want him dead, then you kill him."

"I... well, no. I suppose we can use whatever help we can get," he conceded grudgingly, flushing.

Zevran watch the exchange between the two men with interest, noting the friction between them.

Fearghal swung back to him, expectantly.

"I pledge my loyalty to you, until such time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear," said Zevran.

Fearghal nodded approvingly and pulled a small knife from his belt, cutting the assassin's bonds.

Leliana handed the assassin his weapons and turned to follow Fearghal, who had already started up the road.

Fearghal stopped suddenly and looked back at Zevran. "I don't suppose you have your own tent?" he asked.

It was the last question Zevran had expected. "Alas, no," he told the Warden apologetically. He watched, baffled, as Fearghal cursed and stomped away up the road with his hound.


	21. Chapter 21

Finishing his third bowl of stew and finally starting to feel replete, Fearghal stayed his spoon and looked at Zevran. The assassin was watching Fearghal and Alistair eat, his eyes twinkling with amusement, his expression faintly admiring.

"You know, I'm surprised at Loghain. I didn't think assassins would be his style at all; I would have expected a more... direct approach." mused Fearghal.

Zevran grinned. "I got the impression he found the idea distasteful, but it was the Arl of Denerim that commissioned the services of the Crows. When I was presented to the Regent, it was obvious he'd had no idea about it but as the thing was done, he agreed to go along with it."

"Urien Kendells seems an even less likely candidate to be contracting the services of an assassin." Fearghal snorted with laughter, "It must have stuck in his craw when you turned up!"

Zevran frowned. He was about to ask who Urien Kendells was when Fearghal noted his look. "The Arl of Denerim has rather a low opinion of elves," he explained, misunderstanding Zevran's confusion.

Zevran shrugged. Such attitudes were common. "Urien Kendells, I do not know this name."

"Kendells was at Ostagar, Fearghal," said Alistair. "There must be a new Arl."

Fearghal scowled. "Vaughan then. His reputation is even more unpleasant that his father's. Pity the the elves in Denerim's alienage if he's come into his inheritance."

Zevran shook his head. "I met no-one of this name. The Arl of Denerim is a man called Rendon Howe. He... "

Fearghal's bowl dropped to the floor as launched himself at Zevran. The warden grabbed the front of Zevran's shirt, hauling him to his feet and shaking him, as a dog would shake a rat.

"Tell me about Howe!" Fearghal snarled.

Zevran forced himself to relax. "There is little to tell. He made a contract with the Crows to eliminate the remaining Wardens," he said, keeping his voice calm and even.

"What _exactly_ did he say?" growled Fearghal, giving Zevran another shake. "Wardens, or did he name us?"

Zevran met the Warden's gaze steadily. "He said that there were reports of two _Wardens_ surviving Ostagar. That the Grey Wardens had betrayed King Cailan and any survivors were to be killed."

Fearghal's grip relaxed and Zevran took a small step back. "You and this man have a personal vendetta?"

Fearghal's face twisted. "You could say that," he spat out. Seeing the open curiosity on the assassin's face, Fearghal added, "Howe has reasons, other than the fact of my being a Grey Warden, to want me dead... if he even knows I'm alive."

Fearghal shoulders slumped, his mood suddenly morose. Without another word he turned, snapping his fingers at Bane. Fearghal walked away from the camp, his mind whirling with possibilities, his hound at his heel.

Fearghal wandered through the trees in the dim light. Did Howe know he'd been recruited to the Grey Wardens? Howe knew that Duncan had been at Highever the night of the massacre. Fearghal was sure that Howe would have taken the trouble to identify the bodies of anyone of note; Howe had to know that neither himself nor Duncan had been amongst the dead. Would Howe assume that Duncan had merely helped him escape? He sighed; he really had no idea how much or little Howe might know.

His pacing slowed and he sat down on a tree stump. Another thought came to him. Loghain. How far was he involved with Howe? Deeply enough to go along with Howe's procurement of a Crow assassin. Did that mean that Loghain knew of Howe's betrayal _before_ it happened? Fearghal leaned against Bane who was sitting alongside him. _It's all such a bloody mess!_ One thing Fearghal did know; Loghain was prepared to overlook what Howe had done at Highever.

"Er... Fearghal... "

Fearghal twisted round to see Alistair, looking apologetic.

"Morrigan wants to set the wards around the camp. You need to be in the camp before she can... "

Alistair stood for a moment, watching Fearghal heading back through the trees towards the glow of the camp fire. _Why does the Arl of Denerim want him dead?_ A sudden realisation struck Alistair. _Maybe it's_ _ **me**_ _Loghain and Howe want dead._ Alistair almost groaned. He was going to have to tell Fearghal the truth; he was dreading it.

~o~O~o~

Alistair stood aside to allow Fearghal out of the tent, then gratefully scuttled inside. He hated second watch; it always felt like he'd only just got off to sleep before he was being woken up to take his watch. Now he was chilled and it would probably take him ages to get to sleep. He stripped off the heavy, templar plate, rolling his shoulders gratefully. He decided to leave on the padded garments he wore beneath his armour; the extra layer would help. He looked at Fearghal's bedroll, the blanket pulled up over it. _It's probably still warm._ Alistair slipped underneath Fearghal's blanket and reached across to his own bedroll and pulled that blanket over too.

Alistair curled up, pulling the blankets tight around him. Fearghal's blanket and bedroll were still slightly warm and certainly warmer than his own chilled bedding would have been. There was a faint musky smell to Fearghal's bedding; Alistair breathed it in, feeling slightly guilty. He'd never been close enough to Fearghal to smell it before. _Except for that morning in Lothering._ Alistair flushed at the memory. Once he'd realised he was entwined around Fearghal, Alistair had moved so fast he hadn't had time to take any notice of what he smelled like. Alistair felt his face grow hotter at the thought that if he'd woken up first...

Alistair sighed restlessly, and turned over. _It's probably a good job he's such an obnoxious prick._ As much as he hated to, Alistair had to admit, to himself at least, that he found Fearghal attractive. How much worse would it be, if Fearghal was actually pleasant? _It would be unbearable._ Alistair found his thoughts wandering to the Tower; to the dream he'd had in the Fade. In spite of his tiredness he felt himself stir, the familiar ache building in his groin. The memory of being pressed against Cullen, kissed by him, those _feelings_ , almost made Alistair groan out loud.

Alistair's hand absently tugged at the laces on the padded trousers he wore, unlacing the thinner breeches beneath them. His hand dipped into his small clothes and he grasped himself, starting to stroke. Slowly, he replayed the dream in his head. Gradually, the images in his head changed and it was no longer Cullen that he ground his engorged cock against, but Fearghal. It was Fearghal who held him so close, hands grasping his buttocks; Fearghal who kissed him so thoroughly. And they were no longer in the tower but in the bath house behind the Spoiled Princess. Alistair imagined running his hands over that furred chest that so fascinated him; imagined grinding against Fearghal with no clothes to get in the way... that thought was too much. Warm liquid spurted into Alistair's hand almost before he knew what was happening. Alistair groaned. _I'm going to drive myself mad like this._

Alistair started as he heard voices. _Fearghal and Zevran._ Usually Fearghal's watch was quiet; until the assassin had joined them, he had taken it alone with only his dog for company. Unthinkingly, Alistair wiped his hand on the bedroll, then swore softly, realising what he'd done. He tugged his shirt down and scrubbed at the bedroll, then tucked it in and laced his breeches back up. The voices were faint and indistinct but gradually they grew clearer as the two men completed their circuit and settled by the fire to warm themselves. _They must be right outside the tent._

"... I confess, Fearghal, I was surprised that you knew of the Crows. They are not well known in Ferelden. Indeed, I would venture that you know quite a bit about the Crows."

"My... I know... used to know someone from Antiva. She used to tell stories of the Crows."

Zevran grinned. "Ah, a lady. A former lover?"

"No!" burst out Fearghal, shocked at the suggestion. He lowered his voice. "She's my... was... my sister-in-law. My brother's wife."

"I'm sorry," muttered Zevran, inwardly cursing his carelessness.

Fearghal shrugged. "You weren't to know." Fearghal's face darkened and he spat, "Howe's men. They butchered everyone."

"Your brother?"

"He was at Ostagar," sighed Fearghal. "When I got there, they said he was out with a scouting party. I learned later that they ran into a big party of darkspawn. As far as I know, only one man survived." Fearghal gazed into the fire, lost in thought. "At least he never knew..."

He didn't realised he'd spoken out loud until Zevran murmured, "That would be difficult news to bear, indeed."

Fearghal's face hardened. "His is the only death I don't owe that bastard Howe for. I had no choice about becoming a Grey Warden. There's a Blight and I'll do what I have to do, but I swear, when this is over I'm going after Howe. That treacherous snake will wish he'd never been born before he dies."

Zevran shivered at the menace in Fearghal's voice and was relieved when he returned his attention to the flickering flames, no doubt planning the lingering and painful death that he was going to inflict on Rendon Howe.

Alistair pulled his blankets tighter around himself. He remembered Fearghal's dream in the Fade. The couple with the child, Fearghal's brother and the quiet smiling woman. _I wonder who's looking after the boy now?_ Wynne had said Fearghal's dream was different, that he was reliving memories. Alistair hadn't really thought about it before, but now it puzzled him. His own dream was obviously created from his desires. Given Morrigan's dramatic interruption, Alistair could only be grateful that the demon hadn't seized on his attraction to Fearghal. Suddenly, it dawned on Alistair. He remembered the desire demon they'd found in the templars' quarters; she'd seen it. _He'd had everything he ever desired. There's nothing else he wants._

~o~O~o~

The following evening they camped outside a run-down village. There was no inn, but there was a rough-looking tavern. Once they'd eaten, Zevran suggested they have a drink in the tavern to see if they could pick up some news. Fearghal thought it was a good idea.

"You coming, Alistair?"

For a moment Alistair hesitated, remembering how things had gone downhill in the tavern at Lothering, then nodded. There was no reason to suppose Loghain's men would be looking for them out here.

Fearghal looked at Alistair, in his templar armour. "Maybe you'd better put on your old mail. It'll draw less attention," he suggested.

It didn't take Alistair long to change and minutes later he was heading into the village with Zevran and Fearghal. The tavern turned out to be as shabby as the rest of the village. The fire was small and mean and the rushes were old and stale; it wasn't surprising the place was almost empty except for a couple of thuggish-looking fellows who leaned against the bar chatting to the barman and a few men, labourers by the look of them, clustered around a table near the meagre fire.

Alistair and Zevran seated themselves at a table near the bar while Fearghal went to buy the drinks. Fearghal chatted with the barman, then handed him a few coins. The barman didn't seem to have much news at all.

He was just about to take the ale over to the table when one of the men standing at the bar piped up, "That were a turn up 'bout the Teyrn of Highever, though."

Fearghal froze.

"Oh aye? I'd 'eard there were some bother up there a few weeks back. wha's 'appened now?" asked the barman.

At the table, Alistair swore softly and nudged Zevran, nodding at Fearghal.

"Well, I'd 'eard there were fightin' up there but no-one knew why. Well, now they do," said the man knowingly.

Fearghal set the flagons back down on the bar. "Really? What's the story?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

The man looked pleased at the attention. "Well, I 'eard that the Couslands 'ave bin attainted," he pronounced, more than a little satisfied with the look of shock this news produced on Fearghal's face.

"What?" Fearghal had gone white as a sheet.

"Attainted? Wha's that then?" asked the second fellow.

"It means they was traitors," the barman informed him.

"Yep. I 'eard that Arl How was sent to Highever to arrest the Teyrn for conspirin' with the Orlesians but when 'e got there, the Teyrn's men attacked 'im."

"That's a lie!" shouted Fearghal.

The first man snorted. "I dunno, I reckon there's no smoke without fire. Anyway, all them Couslands is dead an' good riddance, I say. They were traitors an' they got what they deserved if... "

The man staggered back against his friend as Fearghal's fist smashed into his face. Alistair and Zevran leaped out of their seats. Alistair grabbed Fearghal's arms; the memory of the bandit in Lothering fresh in his mind. The man Fearghal had thumped came back swinging, his fist connecting with Fearghal's jaw. Alistair saw stars when Fearghal's head snapped back and slammed into his face. His eyes streaming , Alistair let go of Fearghal's arms to clutch his nose.

Dazed by the blow, Fearghal stood, blinking stupidly and shaking his head. Another blow sent him staggering back against Alistair, who instinctively pushed him away. With a roar, Fearghal charged at the man who'd hit him, planting a hard fist in the man's soft belly; the man doubled over, groaning, and Fearghal drove his fist into the man's jaw, sending him staggering back across the room. Fearghal followed him, grabbing the front of the man's tunic to pull him up and drove his fist into the man's face again. To Alistair, it looked like a replay of when Fearghal had killed the bandit.

"Oh Maker, he'll kill him!" groaned Alistair, rushing forwards to try and pull Fearghal off the man.

Zevran, who had the arms of the second man pinned behind his back, turned his head to look. As he did so the man wriggled free and grabbed a chair, battering Fearghal over the head with it. Fearghal dropped like a stone without a sound. The man Fearghal had been hitting pulled back his foot to kick Fearghal; he froze as a blade pricked his neck.

"I think not, my friend. It is the mark of a coward to kick a man when he's down, no?"

The barman hurried out from behind the bar. "Tom, put that chair down! If you break it, you're payin' for it!" He turned to Alistair. "You. Get 'im out of 'ere and don't none of you come back!"

Alistair rushed over to Fearghal and turned him over. Zevran let the battered man go and waved him back with his knife. When he was satisfied the man was far enough away not to be a danger, he helped Alistair pull Fearghal to his feet. Alistair stooped, then slung Fearghal over his shoulder. Alistair made his way carefully through the tavern's door, Zevran following, his dagger still in his hand. Slowly they made their way back to camp.


	22. Chapter 22

The mood of the group as they travelled to Redcliffe was tense. When Alistair and Zevran had arrived back at the camp with an unconscious Fearghal, Wynne had been furious. She seemed to hold Alistair responsible for _letting_ Fearghal get into a fight. That Zevran had stood up for Alistair just made things worse, from Alistair's point of view; the assassin was the last person Alistair wanted to be friendly with or beholden to.

With pursed lips and much muttering, Wynne had healed Alistair's nose. He still winced to think about it. She had straightened it first and when he'd yelped in pain, had demanded sternly if he _really_ wanted a nose as badly bent as Fearghal's. There was a part of Alistair that wouldn't have minded; Fearghal's nose lent him a distinctly rakish air that Alistair envied. However, Alistair was quite vain about his straight, aristocratic nose and so he had borne Wynne's ministrations without complaint. Besides, he didn't want to snore like Fearghal did.

Fearghal had a broken jaw and a spectacular black eye. Wynne had conjured some ice and slapped an ice pack on the blackening eye and healed his jaw before tending to his head injury. For all Wynne's healing, Fearghal was left with a swollen jaw and one side of his face was interesting shades of purple and green. Alistair had watched him carefully after he'd come round, thinking that maybe his temper would still be up but instead, Fearghal seemed depressed and withdrawn. Alistair knew little of the Couslands at Highever and could only wonder at the loyalty they inspired in their men. He supposed that Fearghal had been sent there to squire as a boy, like many other minor sons of minor nobles. _It must be like losing family._

As they travelled, Alistair had been hoping to get a chance to talk to Fearghal but Fearghal avoided talking to anyone, unless he absolutely had to. Given the close confines of the group, it was incredibly difficult to get the man alone, and Alistair had no desire to speak in front of the others. Finally they crested a hill and Redcliffe came into view. Alistair knew he had to speak now. He hung back, letting the others pass.

Catching Fearghal's eye, he took a deep breath and said, "I need to talk to you. There's something I probably should have told you earlier but... it just never seemed to be a good time."

The others had stopped and were looking back up the hill at them, obviously curious.

Fearghal's voice was flat and disinterested as he told them to carry on down the hill; that he and Alistair would catch them up shortly.

Fearghal's eyes narrowed as he took in Alistair's tense posture, the way he wouldn't quite meet Fearghal's eye. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"I doubt it. I never have, that's for sure." Alistair's eyes flicked briefly, to look at Fearghal, then away again.

Alistair took a deep breath and started to explain. "I told you about how Arl Eamon raised me; that my mother was a serving girl here and he took me in when she died?"

Fearghal nodded, waiting for Alistair to continue.

"Well the reason he did that was... well, because my father was King Maric." Alistair flinched as Fearghal exploded.

"What? You don't think you might have told me this before?" yelled Fearghal, his mind working furiously, trying to see all the implications of Alistair's revelation.

"When would I say that?" sighed Alistair. "It doesn't exactly crop up in conversation. _'Oh, by the way, King Maric had sex with a servant and produced a bastard son, which would be me.'_ " Alistair rubbed his face. "Besides, it's never meant anything to me. I'm just an inconvenience, a possible threat to Cailan's rule. My existence has always been kept a secret. I've never talked about it to anyone."

Alistair paused, trying to gauge Fearghal's reaction. Fearghal's eyes were cold and hard, Alistair found it impossible to know what was going on behind them.

"The few people who did know either resented me for it, or they coddled me... even Duncan kept me out of the fighting. I didn't want you to know. I'm sorry." Alistair fidgeted, wishing that Fearghal would just say something.

"I can't believe you were so _stupid_!" Although he kept his voice low, Fearghal's tone was livid.

"I said I'm sorry," flared Alistair. "Look, I know I should have said something. It's just this has never brought me anything but problems."

"Does Loghain know?" demanded Fearghal.

"I don't know... not for sure, but I assume so. After all, he and King Maric were close." Alistair flushed. "I almost told you before, when you thought Howe had sent Zevran after you, but... "

"You think they sent him after _you_?"

Alistair shrugged, "I don't know. I suppose it's possible."

Fearghal paced, lost in thought. "If Loghain knows, then..." He stopped as thought struck him. "You're the heir to the throne."

"What?" yelped Alistair, appalled at the prospect. "No! No, I'm not! I'm the son of a commoner... "

"And a king," interrupted Fearghal.

"... and a Grey Warden to boot. It's _always_ been made very clear to me that there was no room for me raising rebellions or anything like that."

Alistair swallowed as Fearghal gave him an odd look; an _unconvinced_ look. "Look, can we just move on? I'll just pretend you still think I'm some... nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

"You and me both," muttered Fearghal.

"Welcome to the club," said Alistair.

Fearghal scowled. "We're not done talking about this, Alistair. But... now's not really the time or the place. The others are waiting for us."

Alistair looked down the hill; the rest of the group were waiting by a small bridge.

The lone guard on the bridge was pathetically pleased to see them. Fearghal groaned as the man explained that no-one had been in or out of the castle for days, except for some _evil_ that had been attacking the town. The man seemed at a loss to explain further but offered to take them down to Bann Teagan who, it seemed, was leading the defence of the town.

"Bann Teagan? Arl Eamon's brother? He's here?" exclaimed Alistair, brightening. Fearghal's head jerked at the name.

"Do you know Bann Teagan, Fearghal?"

Fearghal nodded. "Not well. I'd forgotten he was related to Arl Eamon," he explained, shrugging.

The guard led them down the steep path into the town and into the chantry. The chantry was crammed with women, children and a few old men. As they made their way forwards, stepping over scattered belongings, a man at the front looked up.

"It's... Tomas, yes? Who are these people with you? They don't look like simple travellers."

Alistair stepped forward, smiling. "Bann Teagan. The last time we met I was a lot younger and... covered in mud."

Teagan frowned, then smiled broadly. "Covered in mud? Alistair! Is that you? You're alive!"

Alistair grinned. "Still alive, although not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it."

"Indeed. Loghain would have us all believed that all the Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things."

Fearghal stepped forward. "Not all of us died."

Teagan turned towards him. "So you're a Grey Warden as well? You seem very familiar. Have we...?" Teagan's eyes widened in shock. "Lord Fearghal!"

Fearghal frowned. "Just Fearghal. I, too, am a Grey warden."

Alistair looked on puzzled, his mouth dropping open when Teagan continued.

"I was greatly saddened to hear of your father's death. Teyrn Cousland was a fine man; he will be missed by many." Teagan paused, then continued hesitantly, "There are all sorts of wild rumours circulating about... "

"Later, Teagan," snapped Fearghal. He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. We'll talk later, I promise. We're here to see the Arl, but I understand that might be difficult."

Alistair only half-listened to Teagan, his mind reeling from the revelation that Fearghal's father was the Teyrn of Highever. Suddenly so much made sense. A part of him felt angry that Fearghal had withheld such the fact, especially in the light of Alistair's own revelation about his parentage and Fearghal's reaction; however, Fearghal's reaction to the news that the Couslands had been attainted seemed much more understandable.

Quickly, Teagan explained about the creatures that had swarmed out of the castle on the last few nights, walking dead that killed everything in their path. There had been an abortive attempt to evacuate the village that had been quickly abandoned when the creatures had attacked in broad daylight. The Mayor was organising a defence, but they had been sorely pressed the previous night, losing several men. It was unlikely they could fend off the monsters successfully again.

Teagan looked relieved when Fearghal offered to help. Alistair didn't realise he'd been holding his breath until Fearghal volunteered their aid and all the tension leeched out of him. Both Sten and Morrigan started to protest until Fearghal suggested they could leave if they wished and he hoped they had better luck than the villagers had had. Grumbling, they headed towards the door of the chantry with Wynne, Leliana and Zevran close behind them. Alistair lingered, waiting for Fearghal.

"You should speak to Murdock, he's getting things organised outside," Teagan told Fearghal. "He insists I stay in here, says I'm ' _the last line of defence_ '. I suspect it's his way of telling me I'm getting under his feet."

Fearghal smiled. "Don't underrate yourself, Teagan. Besides, if he's not worrying about your safety, he'll probably be more effective."

"Fearghal, thank you for offering to help. It was really starting to feel quite hopeless."

Fearghal looked away. "Well, like I said to Sten and Morrigan, leaving doesn't seem to be an option. Besides," Fearghal's voice dropped, "you were a good friend to Rory. He'd never forgive me if... "

"Rory survived?" asked Teagan, astonished.

Fearghal shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Teagan's face fell. "I'm so sorry," he said softly. "He was... I'll miss ... "

"I know. Truly, we'll talk later... when all this is over." Fearghal turned and seemed surprised to see Alistair still standing there. "Let's go and see Murdock," he growled, then nodded abruptly at Teagan and headed towards the door.

Murdock turned out to be a dour man who didn't seem to think they could do much to help. Fearghal grew impatient with his defeatist attitude. Alistair watched with interest; Fearghal had been raised giving orders and expecting them to be followed. Knowing who he was made Alistair notice things, analyse things he'd never given much thought to before.

The other thing that struck Alistair, as the day wore on, was the fact that any mention of Fearghal's past seemed to galvanise him into activity. Alistair could see the tension in the way Fearghal held himself; he snarled and growled at everyone, the air of barely restrained rage intimidating to all. It felt to Alistair as if he spent the afternoon smoothing ruffled feathers; Fearghal would scowl and thunder at people, then Alistair would step in and mediate. He supposed that people were so relieved that he was _reasonable_ , compared to Fearghal anyway, they'd agree to almost anything.

By the end of the afternoon they'd got a lot done. Alistair recalled Bennet's words, ' _Grief takes men different ways_ ' he'd said. The blacksmith had been persuaded to open his forge; Alistair had been afraid that Fearghal was going to brain the man with his own anvil. A Dwarven mercenary and his cronies had been persuaded to aid in the defence of the town... if threatening to kill the man if he survived until morning counted as persuasion. Alistair had stepped in quickly when Fearghal became irritated with the Revered Mother's insistence that it was 'wrong' to tell Ser Perth's men that the medals she gave them would help them.

The fat landlord of the inn 'volunteered' to join the militia; Alistair had been happy to hang back during _that_ conversation, repulsed by the man's avarice and cowardice. He'd been amused to notice the barmaid making eyes at Fearghal afterwards, plus she'd allowed them to help themselves to the man's stock. She'd been so grateful, she'd pointed out the suspicious elf who'd been hanging around for days. Fearghal had intimidated the man, then Alistair had come to his rescue. The elf had been pathetically eager to tell them the little he knew and had also been conscripted into the militia.

As the elf scurried out of the inn, Zevran laughed.

Fearghal turned to look at him, puzzled. "What's so funny?"

"You are, dear Warden."

Fearghal's eyes widened. Alistair tensed, expecting his anger to flare; he didn't think Fearghal would take kindly to being laughed at.

"Well, you and Alistair. I have rarely seen two men work so well together," explained Zevran.

Alistair rolled his eyes; the assassin had to know that Fearghal detested him. To his surprise, Fearghal relaxed and grimaced more than grinned, but there was a wry humour in his face that acknowledged the truth of Zevran's words. Saying nothing he turned and headed back down the hill to the chantry.

As they entered, a young woman approached Leliana. "There was no sign of my brother?" She bit her lip, struggling not to cry.

Leliana shook her head. "I'm sorry, I've seen no sign of him."

Fearghal had stopped to listen. "Who? Who is missing?"

"M-my brother, ser. I'd hoped he'd come back before nightfall... h-he's only nine..." the woman stopped, unable to hold back her tears any longer.

Fearghal swore softly under his breath and glanced out of the window. The light was fading and it would soon be dark. "Which is your house?"

The woman pointed. "That one, ser."

Fearghal turned to the others. "We don't have much time. I think we should split up. I'll take Zevran; Alistair, you go with Leliana. We'll check all the houses, pick the locks if you need to. Morrigan and Sten, I want you both to check sheds and outhouses. Let's find the little bugger before it gets dark." He started towards the door, then stopped, looking back at the woman. "What's his name?"

"B-Bevin, ser."

Fearghal nodded and headed out of the chantry, towards the house she'd pointed out.

The house was small and there weren't many places for a small boy to hide. Fearghal caught Zevran's eye and grinned at a noise from the large cupboard in the corner. He yanked the door open and pulled out the boy hiding within.

"You must be Bevin. What are you hoping to achieve in there?" he asked, amused as much as irritated with the boy.

"I wasn't always in there! I hid when I heard you coming. I was...er...well, it's supposed to be a secret."

Fearghal suppressed a smile. "Well, are you better at keeping secrets than you are at hide-and-seek? Although, maybe it's something I could help with?"

"Father said I could have his sword when I grew up. It was Grandfather's and _he_ was a great dragon-slayer. I thought... if I was brave like Grandfather, I could use his sword and... k-kill the bad things that t-took M-Mother." The boy's eyes filled with tears.

"A great-dragon slayer, eh?" said Fearghal softly. "It must be a fine sword."

"It is," agreed Bevin sniffing. "Only... it's too heavy."

"Ah. Could I see it?"

Bevin turned back to the cupboard and pointed. At the back, the sword lay in its scabbard. Fearghal retrieved it and drew the sword, weighing it in his hand, surprised to find that it _was_ a fine sword.

He sheathed it again and turned back towards Bevin. "You're very brave, Bevin. It's a fine thing you wanted to do. My fellow Warden, Alistair, is in need of a good sword. Would you mind if he used this sword? He'll be able to slay many of the monsters with this."

The boy gazed up at him, his uncertainty plain. "I can't give it to you; it was Father's. Kaitlyn would be mad with me if I did!"

"Kaitlyn's your sister?"

Bevin nodded.

"Come with me to the chantry and I'll talk to Kaitlyn. I'm sure there's some way I can help you both in return."

As they stepped out of the house, they almost bumped into Alistair and Leliana.

"Oh, you found him!" exclaimed Leliana.

"We found something too," said Alistair, smirking. "There're several barrels of oil in a storeroom back there. They might be useful; we could maybe use it to set the barricades on fire once those... things turn up. It could slow them down."

"That's an excellent idea, Alistair! Zevran, get Murdock to lend you some men and get those barrels up to Ser Perth at the barricades."

Alistair beamed with pleasure at the unexpected praise. His smile grew wider when Fearghal showed him the sword.

"Look at this, Alistair. A dragon-slayer's sword, no less!"

Alistair drew the sword and weighed it, testing its balance, as Fearghal had done. It whistled through the air as he swung it. He handed it back to Fearghal, regretfully. "It's a fine sword," he agreed.

"Let's go and see if Bevin's sister can be persuaded to part with it." Fearghal led them into the chantry and stood back a little as Kaitlyn fell on her brother, weeping with relief and scolding him at the same time. Once she had calmed a little she was more than willing to sell the sword, especially at the price Fearghal offered.

Alistair almost fumbled as Fearghal tossed the sheathed sword to him. He frowned at it. "What... ?"

"Your sword isn't nearly as good as that one," said Fearghal.

"You're giving it to me?" Alistair was dumbfounded.

Fearghal shrugged. "I don't need it. If nothing else, we need decent weapons and armour. Let's round up the others and head up to Ser Perth. It's almost dark."

Alistair stared after him, then quickly swapped his swords and ran to catch up.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB - A snug - a small, secluded room in a tavern - this is commonly used in the UK, but might not be familiar to non-british readers.

Alistair's idea to coat the barricades in oil and set them alight turned out to be inspired. The road down the hill to the village was flanked by steep banking and served as a funnel. The only way for the shambling monsters to get at the men beyond the barriers was through the fire. Dried and desiccated, the skeletal corpses caught light quickly. While the fire didn't seem to cause them any pain or do much damage, it did appear to disorientate and confuse them. Flaming monsters staggered around in circles and they were easily picked off by Leliana and Zevran, using bows, and Wynne and Morrigan using their staves. Alistair, Fearghal and Sten were almost disappointed that there was little for them to do.

"This is too easy, I feel like a spare part." grumbled Fearghal.

Zevran laughed as he fired another arrow. "Be careful what you wish for, Warden."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than their attention was drawn by a breathless yell. The young man who'd been guarding the road that day staggered to the top of the hill and braced his hands on his thighs as he leaned forwards, trying to catch his breath.

"M-Murdock sent me. They're c-coming from the lake. Dozens of them!"

"We're heading down the hill, Ser Perth. You can manage here?" called Fearghal.

The tall, red-haired knight nodded and waved them away. Fearghal and his companions jogged down the hill. Murdock and his men were struggling to fend off the swarm of monsters that had emerged from the lake. Leliana took up a position part-way up the hill and started firing arrows before the others had reached the bottom. Zevran threw down his bow and quiver at her feet and drew his daggers, preferring to engage the enemy directly. Bane sped past them all and hurled himself at the nearest monster.

The fighting was fast and furious but gradually they started to get the upper hand. The arrival of Fearghal and Alistair, with their companions, cheered the men fighting outside the chantry. It was slow going initially as monsters that were destroyed seemed to be replaced by others immediately. Eventually, the steady stream of reinforcements slowed, then stopped. It was almost sunrise when the last creature was killed.

Then came the heavy work of shifting and disposing of the remains of the walking dead and also seeing to those who had died during the fighting, mercifully not many. Alistair, Fearghal, Sten stripped off their armour and worked alongside the men of the village. At the top of the hill, Ser Perth and his men did likewise. The monsters were stacked on a pyre just outside the village and by the time the sun came up, the oil-soaked remains were well alight.

Teagan emerged from the chantry and gave a little speech which was well-received by the villagers but which seemed to embarrass Fearghal no end, when he was singled out for thanks. Teagan walked with them up the hill to the inn.

"I'm sure accommodation will be no problem and I think you all need to clean up. Bella cooks a fine breakfast. Fearghal, I need to speak to you and Alistair. There's a little snug, I thought we three could breakfast in there."

Fearghal nodded and entered the inn. Teagan has arranged for their packs to be brought up. In moments he was upstairs, eyeing the basins of hot water gratefully as he stripped off his filthy clothes.

~o~O~o~

Alistair reached to open the door to the snug, when Fearghal's voice made him hesitate.

"Not _now_ , Teagan. I'm too tired and... "

Teagan's voice came through the door, a soothing murmur of indistinct words.

Alistair pushed open the door.

Teagan, sat at a laden table, looked up and smiled. "Ah, Alistair. Come, sit, before the food gets cold."

Alistair glanced over at Fearghal; he stood at the window staring out, his posture stiff and his shoulders hunched with tension. He barely turned his head to acknowledge Alistair, before resuming his brooding, staring across the lake.

Alistair sat at the table, eying the spread, his stomach growling with hunger. He piled his plate with bacon, eggs, sausages and mushrooms, then cut several thick slices of bread and tucked in.

"Mmmm, this is good. I haven't had a breakfast like this since we left Denerim," he mumbled, stuffing food in his mouth.

Teagan watched him with growing amusement. "You'd better hurry up, Fearghal, before Alistair eats everything."

Fearghal grunted and came and sat, piling his plate as high as Alistair had.

There wasn't much talking as they ate, with a brief respite as Bella brought in steaming bowls of porridge. She viewed the heel of bread, all that was left of the large loaf, with amazement.

"Shall I bring in more bread, My Lord?" she asked Teagan.

With an awestruck glance at the two Wardens, who were already half way through their porridge, Teagan nodded. "I think you'd better. And some more tea, please, Bella."

By the time they had finished breakfast, Alistair noted that some of the tension had eased from Fearghal's shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief. They sat quietly, all nursing large mugs of cooling tea.

Teagan glanced out of the window. "The castle looks so quiet from here. You'd think there was nobody inside at all," he murmured. He looked at Alistair, then Fearghal. "I had a plan... to enter the castle after the village was secure. There's a secret passage, from the mill up there."

"Maferath's balls, Teagan! Why didn't you enter the castle in the first place?"

"I have no idea what's in there! And I couldn't just abandon the people here. What if..."

Fearghal groaned, pushing his chair back and starting to pace. "I... understand. But if we'd known of this yesterday we might have been able to prevent last night's attack from happening at all!"

Teagan went white. "Maker's breath! I never thought... I-I was so caught up with... " He groaned and leaned his elbows on the table burying his face in his hands.

"It's done now," sighed Fearghal. "Tell us about this passage."

"It runs from the mill to the dungeons. Not many people even know about it and it can only be opened by a member of the family." Teagan lifted his hand and waggled his fingers, the large signet ring he wore flashing in the early morning sunlight that was pouring into the room.

Fearghal rubbed his face, trying to organise his thoughts.

"You should both get some rest," suggested Teagan. "I'll send your armour and weapons down to Owen; he can clean and repair them, as necessary. I'll send someone to wake you at noon."

Fearghal nodded wearily. "Alistair, can you let the others know? I think it best if we only take a small group through the passage. Wynne and Morrigan, I think."

Alistair pushed back his chair and went in search of the mages. By the time he reached the room he was sharing with Fearghal, Fearghal was face down on the bed, fast asleep.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal, Alistair, Morrigan and Wynne met Teagan at the top of the hill, by the windmill. A reluctant Bane had been dragged away from Bella's kitchen where he was being spoiled with titbits and leftovers.

As they reached the top of the path, they saw Teagan's eyes widen. "Maker's breath!" muttered Teagan.

They followed his gaze and saw a well-dressed woman hurrying down the path, followed by a nervous looking guard. Alistair groaned.

"Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live!" Even out of breath as she was, her strong Orlesian accent was plain.

"Isolde!" exclaimed Teagan. "How did you... ? What has happened?"

"I don't have much time. I slipped away from the castle and I must return quickly." Her eyes flicked away briefly. "I need you to return with me, Teagan."

Fearghal's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You _slipped_ away? And now you expect Teagan to go back there with you?"

The arlessa whirled on Fearghal. "What? I... Who _is_ this man, Teagan?"

Alistair stepped forward, with a sigh. "You remember me, Lady Isolde?"

"Alistair? Of all the... why are _you_ here?" sneered the arlessa.

"They are Grey Wardens, Isolde. I owe them my life," explained Teagan.

"Pardon me, I... I would exchange pleasantries, but... considering the circumstances... " she smirked at them, her dismissal plain.

Alistair felt a flare of anger. Isolde hadn't changed a bit. "Lady Isolde, we had no idea anyone was even alive in the castle. We need to know what's going on in there!"

"I-I don't know what is safe to tell," confessed Isolde, casting a desperate glance at Teagan. "There is a terrible evil in the castle. The dead awaken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues. And I think... " Isolde faltered, her voice cracking. She took a deep breath and continued, "I think Connor is going mad! We have survived but he insists on staying there."

Isolde grasped Teagan's arm. "You must help him, Teagan! You're his uncle. Maybe you _can_ reason with him," she implored.

"Why do I get the feeling you aren't telling us everything?" Fearghal's voice was as cold as his eyes as he regarded the arlessa steadily.

He didn't flinch as she whirled in him, bristling with indignation. "I... I beg your pardon! That's a very impertinent accusation!"

Alistair couldn't stifle the little moment of glee he felt as Fearghal replied, "Not if it's true."

"An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came here for help. What more do you want from me?" demanded Isolde.

"Isolde," interrupted Teagan. "What do you mean by this ' _evil_ '? Did it create those monsters? What is it?"

"It is something the mage unleashed. So far it allows Eamon, Connor and myself to live. It had... killed everyone else; it turned their bodies into walking nightmares. Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village. I don't understand why it has spared us. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged; I said that Connor needed help."

"What about this mage you mentioned? Who is he?" asked Fearghal.

"He is an infiltrator; one of the castle staff. We discovered he has been poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill."

"Eamon was poisoned?" Teagan's face flushed with anger.

Isolde nodded. "He claims to be an agent of Teyrn Loghain."

Fearghal's mind started working furiously at this revelation. _Loghain was plotting before Ostagar? How long has he been planning this?_

His head snapped up as he heard Teagan say, "I will return to the castle with you, Isolde."

"I think this is a mistake, Teagan. You're going to get yourself killed!" protested Fearghal.

"I know this may be a trap, but this is my _family_. I must try," argued Teagan.

Fearghal opened his mouth to disagree, then realised he couldn't. He understood exactly how Teagan felt and knew that he would do no differently.

Sensing his hesitation, Teagan pressed his case. "I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone. You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable."

Teagan turned to Isolde. "Will you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you."

Grudgingly, Isolde walked a little way up the path. Teagan walked towards the mill, beckoning the others to follow. He pulled off his signet ring and held it out to Fearghal.

"This will unlock the entrance to the passage. There's a trapdoor at the back of the mill. Maybe, once I'm inside, I can distract whatever lurks in the castle and increase your chances of getting in. I'd prefer to go with you, but this seems the only way."

Fearghal reluctantly agreed and accepted Teagan's ring.

"Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle gates. If you can open them from within, they can move in and help."

Teagan cleared his throat awkwardly. "Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, anyone else... we're expendable."

"I understand. I'll do my best." Fearghal's voice was strangled, the words almost choking him. He didn't like it, but he _did_ understand. He held out his hand to Teagan. "Good luck, Teagan."

Teagan grasped Fearghal's wrist. "You're a good man, Fearghal. The Maker smiled on me indeed, when He sent you to Redcliffe."

Teagan paused to grasp Alistair's wrist, then hurried after Isolde.


	24. Chapter 24

Fearghal and Alistair helped Wynne down the ladder, whilst Morrigan maintained a wisp of light. The passage was damp and chilled. Fearghal led the way with Morrigan at his side. They didn't dally, the tunnel was unpleasant and they all wished to be through it as soon as possible. Water dripped from the ceiling forming stagnant puddles underfoot. The air was stale and musty; green slime coated the walls, eerie- looking in the pale wisp light.

A flickering light appeared ahead of them. As they got closer they realised it was a door, the grille at the top admitting light from the corridor beyond.

Fearghal stopped. "Alistair, can you remember your way around?"

"I think so. There weren't many places I didn't get into. I knew all the best hiding places." Alistair chuckled softly. "I managed to lock myself in a cell down here once; I thought I was going to be stuck down here forever."

Fearghal huffed a soft laugh and moved cautiously towards the door, peering through the grille.

He moved back to the waiting group. "There're three of those undead things; they appear to trying to get at something... someone in one of the cells. The door's swollen with damp; it's not going to be that easy to open. Morrigan, can you paralyse them or something, through the grille?"

Morrigan nodded and moved towards the door. She looked through the grille, lips murmuring, then moved aside to allow Fearghal and Alistair access to the door.

Fearghal turned the handle and shoved. The door didn't budge. He looked at Alistair. "On three. One... two... three." Both warriors barged the door with their shoulders. It shifted slightly. "Again," muttered Fearghal. He counted and again, they hurled themselves at the door. It shifted again, then swung open so suddenly, that Fearghal and Alistair almost fell through it. They drew their swords and shield and rushed the paralysed creatures that were just starting to twitch back into life. They were destroyed before Morrigan's spell had fully worn off.

Fearghal turned to look in the cell the monsters had been crowding around. Through the barred door a man huddled against the back wall, eyes wide.

"Are you all right?" asked Fearghal.

The man nodded and stood, approaching the door cautiously. The flickering torchlight revealed a tall, slightly built man in mage robes. Dark hair hung in greasy strands around his face. His skin was pallid except for bruises which were fading to green.

"Y-you're not guards. Are you from outside?" croaked the man.

Fearghal removed the small water-skin from his waist and passed it through the bars.

The man grabbed it and drank gratefully. He drained it and then handed it back. "Thank you. No-one's been down here for days."

"You're the mage that Lady Isolde mentioned?" Fearghal tucked the empty skin in his belt.

"You've spoken to her? Then you know what I did." The mage hung his head, unable to look Fearghal in the eye.

"She said you poisoned the arl." Fearghal's voice was cold and hard.

The mage's eyes flicked up to Fearghal's face, then away again. "I'm not proud of what I've done. P-poisoning the arl was what I was hired to do. Of course, Lady Isolde had no Idea when she hired me to tutor her son."

"What about the walking corpses? Were they part of what you were hired to do?"

"No!" The mage's head jerked up. He met Fearghal's flinty eyes unflinchingly. "I know it looks suspicious, but I'm not responsible for those creatures. I was already imprisoned when all that began."

"What's to stop you using magic down here?" asked Fearghal suspiciously.

The mage held up his arms, showing Fearghal the dull metal bracelets around his wrists. Confused, Fearghal turned to Alistair.

"They suppress magic and drain mana," murmured Alistair.

"The arlessa came down here, demanding that I reverse what I'd done. I thought she meant poisoning the arl. That was the first I'd heard about the walking corpses, I swear! She thought I'd summoned a demon." The mage folded his arms across his chest, hugging himself. "She... had me tortured, then they left me here... to rot."

Fearghal grimaced at the mention of torture. He wasn't naïve enough to believe torture didn't happen, or that there weren't circumstances where it wasn't necessary, but he found the idea distasteful. He frowned as a thought struck him.

"Why did the arlessa hire _you_ to tutor her son?" He gestured at the robes the mage wore. "She must have known you're a mage."

"Lady Isolde was looking for a mage to tutor Connor, secretly. Teyrn Loghain found out and he... sent me. I was to use the opportunity to poison the arl. Loghain said he was a threat to Ferelden. He said that if I did this for him that he would settle things with the Circle for me. You see, I'm a blood mage." The mage hung his head again.

"I thought I recognised you!" exclaimed Wynne. "I thought you were... dead, hunted down by the templars. Jowan."

Jowan shrugged. "I don't know what story they put about. I was in hiding when I was caught, but instead of killing me, Loghain made me an offer." He groaned and hid his face in his hands. "Everything's such a mess and it's all my fault. I'd do anything to put it right."

Fearghal rolled his eyes. "Why did the arlessa need a _mage_ to tutor her son?"

Jowan dropped his hands and sighed. "Connor had started to show... signs. She was terrified that the templars would take him away, to the Circle."

"Connor's a mage?" burst out Alistair.

"Lady Isolde sought an apostate to teach her son in secret how to hide his talent. The arl has no idea."

"Could Connor be responsible for what's happening?" asked Fearghal.

"I wondered that, too," said Jowan. "Connor has little knowledge of magic, but he may have done something to tear open the veil, allowing spirits and demons through. Powerful ones could kill and create those walking corpses."

"And Arl Eamon has no idea of his son's... abilities?" asked Fearghal, sounding unconvinced.

"No, absolutely not," asserted Jowan. "She was adamant that he never find out. She said that'd he'd do the right thing, even if it meant losing their son. She was terrified of that happening."

"How much magic did you teach the boy?"

"Some, but he's still very young. He can barely cast a minor spell. Like I said, he may have torn the veil accidentally; if he's involved at all." Jowan clasped the bars of the cell door. "I never meant for it to end like this, I swear. Please, let me help you fix this."

"Jowan's intentions may be good, but... a blood mage? I find it difficult to trust his words." said Wynne.

"I don't know," piped up Alistair. "He's a blood mage, but this _is_ an unusual situation."

Fearghal looked at them both, then turned back to Jowan. "I think you should stay in there for now. You'll be safe in there, at least. We need to find out exactly what's going on first."

Jowan looked disappointed but didn't argue. "Then I will wait. If you change your mind, I'll be here." He flushed, realising the absurdity of his words, as Fearghal burst out laughing.

"I like your sense of humour, mage! Very droll." Fearghal turned and started up the corridor, chuckling to himself.

Alistair led them up out of the small gaol and up through the servants' quarters. They encountered more walking corpses, but nowhere near the numbers they'd had to face during the previous night. Alistair had become used to Fearghal's insistence on checking every room, making a slow methodical progress.

Fearghal checked every cupboard and chest. He threw open the lid of a large chest and almost jumped out of his skin at the loud shriek that greeted him. He laughed shakily when he realised that a servant was hiding in the chest. Wynne calmed the girl down, coaxing her name out of her.

"You're the smith's daughter!" Alistair recognised the name.

The girl nodded her head nervously. "I didn't know what to do! Those things were everywhere and people were screaming. It's been quiet but I didn't know if it was safe to come out. I just want to go home."

Alistair and Fearghal both shuffled uncomfortably; the girl looked like she was about to cry. Fearghal bundled her out into the corridor and told her about the passage from the dungeons to the mill, assuring her that the way behind them was clear. Nervously, the girl headed in the direction they'd come from.

The door connecting the large kitchen to the rest of the keep proved to be locked. Fearghal found himself wishing he'd brought Leliana or Zevran along; both of them could pick locks. Instead, they had to descend into the cellars and emerged, blinking, in the courtyard. The courtyard appeared empty.

"I'll open the gate, go and see if the main doors are locked," instructed Fearghal.

As he strode across the courtyard, he heard a shout of alarm. Looking over his shoulder, he could see ranks of walking corpses emerging from behind the stone balustrade at the top of the steps. Fearghal ran to the gate and heaved on the lever, raising the gate, then drew his sword and shield and ran up the steps to join the others.

Ser Perth had only brought a few knights with him, but he was also accompanied by Sten, Zevran and Leliana. The undead creatures soon fell and Fearghal pushed at the great doors at the top of the steps, relieved when they opened easily.

They advanced cautiously into the great hall. Isolde stood at the front, accompanied by a boy of about eleven. Fearghal was relieved to see Teagan safe and sound, until the Bann started capering like a jester, and he realised that something was very wrong indeed. The boy, Connor, spoke. There was something odd in his voice.

Alistair leaned in close to Fearghal. "His voice. It was the same... in the Fade. The demons, like two voices in one."

Fearghal frowned and listened carefully. There it was, the high, piping boy's voice underlaid with something deeper and more malevolent. Little the boy said made sense, then he ordered Teagan to attack them. Teagan was on his feet, sword drawn, faster than Fearghal would have given the older man credit for. The few guards behind the arlessa also drew their swords and moved forwards.

"Try not to kill them!" shouted Fearghal as he engaged Teagan.

The boy fled the hall before the fighting was over. Fearghal held Teagan at bay, while Zevran slipped behind him and knocked him out with the pommel of his dagger. Perth and his men disabled the other guards.

Fearghal beckoned Wynne over. "If you wake him up, will he be in his right mind?"

"I think so, now that the boy has gone."

"Do it." Fearghal held his sword ready in case Teagan tried to attack Wynne.

Fearghal was relieved when Teagan groaned and sat up holding his head.

Fearghal helped Teagan unsteadily to his feet. "Are you all right?"

"I think so. My mind is my own again."

Isolde rushed forward, grasping Teagan's hand. "Blessed Andraste! I would have never forgiven myself had you died; not after I brought you here!"

"I think you have a lot of explaining to do, My Lady." Fearghal felt a rush of fury at this woman, at the danger she had put everyone in. He fought to keep his voice level, his fists clenching at his side. He had never hit a woman in his life and didn't want to start now.

"Please! Connor's not responsible for this. There must be some way we can save him!" Isolde's voice rose, almost hysterical.

"You _knew_ about this all along!" accused Fearghal.

"He is not always the demon you saw. Connor is still there, I know he is; sometimes he breaks through. Please, don't hurt him. I-I just want to protect him."

"Isn't that what started all this?" asked Teagan. "You hired that mage to teach Connor in secret... to protect him."

Isolde had the grace to look ashamed.

"Where is Connor now? Why did he run?" Fearghal asked.

"Violence... scares him. He may have run up to his room or..."

"Or he might be waiting in ambush," finished Fearghal, grimly.

Isolde shrugged helplessly. "I really don't know. The fighting might have scared Connor into... coming out again."

"So you're saying he may be vulnerable?" clarified Teagan.

Isolde nodded miserably.

Fearghal turned to his companions. "What are our options?"

"I wouldn't normally suggest slaying a child, but... he's an abomination. I'm not sure there's any alternative." Alistair saw something flare in Fearghal's eyes. _The boy in his Fade dream... his nephew; he's dead. He sees him in every boy we come across._ The thought filled Alistair with dread. Could Fearghal do this, if it was necessary? What would it do to him if he did? Fearghal was already so... broken. _Oh, Maker!_ _ **I'll**_ _have to..._ Alistair felt a cold trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck.

"I don't like the idea of hurting the boy, but... " Wynne's voice was soft and hesitant.

A muscle twitched in Fearghal's jaw. "Hurting? I think we're talking about more than _hurting_ , Wynne." Wynne flinched at the edge in Fearghal's voice.

Teagan cleared his throat awkwardly. "Connor is my nephew, but... he is also possessed." His voice was husky. "Death would be merciful."

"No!" Isolde rushed forward and grabbed Fearghal's arm. "Don't do this, I beg you!"

Fearghal stepped back, trying to shake the desperate woman off. "Bring the mage, Jowan. He might know something of this demon."

"He still lives? B-but can we trust him?"

The arlessa finally let go of Fearghal, who looked across at Teagan. "He's in the dungeon. Can you bring him here?" Teagan nodded. "If he gives you any trouble, kill him," added Fearghal.

~o~O~o~

Lady Isolde's face twisted with malice as Teagan reappeared with the mage, Jowan, in tow. "You're lucky to be alive, Jowan, after all you've been done."

"He's lucky to be alive after being tortured, left to rot without food or water, at the mercy of the creatures unleashed by _your_ son because _you_ wished to hide the fact that he's a mage," snarled Fearghal.

The arlessa blanched, then looked away, embarrassed.

"Did Bann Teagan explain to you what's happening?"

Jowan nodded at Fearghal. "The demon in Connor needs to be destroyed. Killing Connor is... the easiest way, but there is an alternative. A mage could confront the demon in the Fade, without hurting Connor."

Wynne snorted. "That would take several mages and a _lot_ of lyrium. Neither of which we have, or have any way of getting."

"I-I can do it," offered Jowan. "I can send another mage into the Fade... with blood magic but... "

"But?" prompted Fearghal.

"The ritual will require life energy; a lot of it. All of it, in fact."

"So... someone must die?" asked Teagan, his voice full of a horror they all felt.

Jowan nodded. "Yes, he confirmed, his voice full of misery. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. It's not much of an option."

"I will do it." Lady Isolde's voice was firm and steady. "I offer my own life. I will be the sacrifice."

"What?" Teagan was appalled. "Isolde, are you mad? Eamon would never allow this!"

"Eamon would never allow Connor to be struck down; not if there was a way he could save him." Isolde's voice trembled as she continued, "Either someone kills my son to destroy the demon, or I give my life so that he may live. To me, the answer is clear."

 _"Darling," said Eleanor, "go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."_

 _Fearghal was looking across at his mother, kneeling at his father's side. 'I won't let you sacrifice yourself!'_

 _Eleanor reached across and stroked her son's face. "My place is with your father. At his side, to death and beyond," she told him gently._

"Blood magic," Alistair's disgusted voice broke through Fearghal's memories. "How can more evil be of any help here?"

"Can we even trust this Jowan to do as he promises?" asked Wynne doubtfully.

Fearghal ignored them and regarded Lady Isolde steadily. "It will be hard for Connor; to know that you have done this," he murmured, so softly she had to strain to hear the words.

"I am his mother. I do this gladly. Please, make sure he understands this. I do this out of love for him and love is never a burden." Isolde blinked back tears as Fearghal nodded.

A moment of understanding passed between them, then Fearghal turned to Morrigan. "Would you be willing to enter the Fade, if Jowan conducts the ritual?"

The witch nodded. "I don't expect this demon will be any more testing than those we encountered in the Circle Tower."

"What? You're going to let the blood mage... " Alistair stopped at the murderous look in Fearghal's eyes.

"It's decided," snarled Fearghal. "Clear the hall!"

Alistair whirled and stormed out of the hall, with the rest of their companions following more slowly. At a glance and a nod from Bann Teagan, Ser Perth and his men also left.

"Er... these need to be removed." Jowan held his arms out, indicating the dull bracelets encircling his bony wrists.

Lady Isolde produced a bunch of keys, singling out a small key, and passed the bunch to Fearghal, her hands trembling. Fearghal had the bracelets unlocked and removed in moments. He passed the keys back to Teagan.

Jowan rubbed his wrists, then dug into a deep pocket in the side of his robe and produced a piece of chalk. As he moved rugs out of the way and started to draw arcane symbols on the floor, Morrigan caught Fearghal's eye and beckoned to him.

"What is it? You're having second thoughts?" asked Fearghal.

"No. I think, for all he is a blood mage, Jowan is sincere in his desire to help. It occurred to me that you will not have seen a mage enter the fade like this before."

When Fearghal shook his head, Morrigan continued. "It will look like I've collapsed. You may even find it difficult to tell if I live. Do not be alarmed. Jowan will be able to tell if anything is wrong."

"Thanks for the warning." Fearghal hesitated. "Morrigan... thank you, for agreeing to do this."

Morrigan gave him a knowing look, then waved off his thanks.

Jowan had finished his preparations and gently led Lady Isolde to the centre of the symbols he'd chalked on the floor.

"I-I stand?" asked Isolde, unable to hide the tremor of fear in her voice.

"Or kneel, or sit. It matters not, My Lady. However you feel most comfortable," murmured Jowan.

Isolde nodded, her eyes huge, then dropped to one knee and lowered her head. Her lips moved, but it was impossible for any of them to make out the words she murmured softly to herself.

Teagan edged nervously towards Fearghal. He had no idea what to expect, except that it was going to be extremely unpleasant.

"Are you ready?" Jowan asked Morrigan. At her nod, the mage raised a hand over Isolde and started chanting, quietly at first, then increasingly loudly. Little crackles of energy sparked around Isolde; as the chanting got louder they multiplied, then coalesced, encasing Lady Isolde in light.

The hair on the back of Fearghal's neck stood on end as the chanting resonated around the large hall and the light flared ever brighter, then Jowan gave a shout and gestured. Isolde's body was jerked up into the air and, for a moment, she hung suspended. With mounting horror Fearghal and Teagan watched as her blood seemed drawn out through the very pores of her skin. A flash of light, as the blood was absorbed by the magical energy surrounding the arlessa, momentarily dazzled them, then both the arlessa and Morrigan sank to the floor.

"It is done," murmured Jowan, weakly. "It's up to your friend now."

Teagan rushed forwards to Isolde, checking for a pulse. Finding none, he sighed, and straightened her limbs. Fearghal hurried over to Morrigan and was relieved to see the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

The waiting was agonising. Teagan and Fearghal paced anxiously up and down the hall while Jowan crouched at Morrigan's side. Eventually, Morrigan stirred and Jowan helped her sit up.

"It is done. The demon is defeated. The boy should be restored to his normal self."


	25. Chapter 25

Fearghal slumped wearily in the chair. Teagan had suggested he wait in the arl's study while he 'made arrangements'. He raised his feet, resting them on the desk and let his head fall back. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so weary. He was drifting, halfway to sleep when the door opened and Teagan entered, bearing a tray. Fearghal jerked his feet off the desk.

"Don't worry, Fearghal," said Teagan, laughing at Fearghal's guilty expression. "After walking corpses, feet on desks don't seem important anymore."

Teagan set the tray down on the desk. "I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry, but I brought some food, just in case. And, Maker knows, I could do with a drink!"

Teagan picked up the wine bottle and filled the two empty glasses on the tray, pushing one towards Fearghal.

Fearghal picked up the glass and sipped at the wine; his eyebrows rose."Will your brother forgive you for drinking his best wine when he recovers?"

Teagan laughed. "If you hadn't turned up, we'd all be dead and there'd be no-one to enjoy it. That would have been _such_ a waste."

Fearghal laughed, almost in spite of himself. He felt his weariness lift a little. Teagan had always been good company. He pulled the plate of cold meat, cheese and bread towards him intending only to pick at it, but it seemed only moments before the plate was empty.

"I've never seen men eat like you and Alistair do. Is it a Grey Warden trait?" asked Teagan, shaking his head in wonder.

Fearghal paused. He remembered watching Alistair eat on the evening of his Joining. ' _Are you part mabari?_ ' He shrugged. "I'll have to ask Alistair. He's never mentioned it, but I didn't used to eat this much."

"Your mage, the older woman, is examining Eamon. I don't know if she'll be able to help. Isolde... " Teagan stumbled on the dead arlessa's name. "Isolde had a mage come from the Circle when he was first taken ill. They didn't even know he'd been poisoned."

"You know, it might be worth asking Zevran," suggested Fearghal. "He's an Antivan Crow."

Teagan gawked at Fearghal. "An assassin? You certainly keep interesting company, Fearghal."

"Tell me about it," muttered Fearghal gloomily. "A hedge witch, a Qunari mass-murderer, an Orlesian chantry sister who believes the Maker put her in my path, a failed Antivan assassin and an old mage who is just about the only surviving member of the Ferelden Circle of Magi and treats us all like five year olds."

Teagan almost choked on his wine as he burst out laughing. "At least you have Alistair."

"Don't get me started on Alistair," growled Fearghal, scowling.

"Oh?" Teagan looked surprised. "Of course, I haven't seen him for years; not since Eamon shipped him off to the chantry. I always liked him though. A remarkably good-tempered little fellow he was, considering what he had to put up with."

Fearghal snorted. "He's still like that now. It drives me mad! He's like some... big puppy bouncing around, expecting everyone to be nice to him because he's... cute! And then, when they're not he gets that _look_. I hate it! He's so bloody naïve. He talks about _Duncan_ like he's some kind of _hero_ and thinks that the Grey Wardens are the best thing since Andraste." Fearghal drained his glass and reached for the bottle to refill it.

"Whereas you, you're old and cynical and a man of the world," mocked Teagan, smiling to take the sting out of his words.

Fearghal sighed heavily. "More worldly than I was." he conceded.

Teagan put down his wine glass and leaned forwards in his chair. "What happened?" he asked softly.

Fearghal drank deeply from his wine glass. "Howe betrayed us. Father and Fergus were all set to go to Ostagar. Then Howe turned up saying his men had been delayed. Father decided that Fergus should set out with _our_ men, as planned; he would wait behind and travel with Howe, when his men turned up."

Fearghal drained his glass then reached for the bottle and refilled it, his had trembling. "It was late. I-I was in my room... waiting for Rory." Fearghal's voice wavered and he stopped, struggling to control his emotions. He sipped at his wine before continuing, "I heard a scream...Oriana... they were everywhere... Howe's men. They were killing everyone. It was... a massacre."

Teagan's face was full of sympathy. Fearghal couldn't bear to look at him as he asked, "Then how did you escape?"

Fearghal's face twisted and he drained his glass again. "Duncan," he spat. He reached for the wine bottle once more. "He'd arrived that day. Said he wanted to test Rory for the Grey Wardens. Father was _dying_ and Duncan stood there, _bargaining_ for a recruit, any recruit. I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance!"

"I'm so sorry, Fearghal. I'd heard rumours, but it was worse than I'd feared. And Rory...?"

Fearghal's face went flat. "He was holding the gates," he said dully. "Duncan said... they'd fallen."

Teagan covered his eyes with his hand, blinking back tears. He didn't know why he felt the need to hide them, except that he knew Fearghal would be hurting over Rory's death far more then he was, yet Fearghal sat there, glaring at the wall.

Teagan looked up as he heard Fearghal's chair scrape back. Fearghal reached for the wine bottle, yet again, and topped up his glass. "I-I think... I need to be alone for a while."

"I can go," offered Teagan.

Fearghal shook his head. "This is... your place."

"The library," suggested Teagan. "Hardly anyone ever uses it. You can be alone in there."

"Thank you." He picked up the bottle of wine. "Do you mind if I... ?"

Teagan waved him away.

Fearghal managed to find the library. It was dark except for the fire someone had lit. He sank into an easy chair and stared morosely at the flames, sipping his wine. He didn't know if it was the wine or talking to Teagan, but his feelings were dangerously close to the surface. A part of him just wanted to lie down on the floor and weep, but it felt as if he started, he'd never stop. He allowed his mind to wander; to imagine being held in strong arms. _Oh, Rory. If only you could have come with us, this wouldn't have been so unbearable._

Fearghal stiffened as he heard the library door open. He looked up, recognising the large frame outlined in the doorway. _Maker's cock! Alistair. What the hell does he want?_

Fearghal drained his glass again and refilled it with the last of the wine as Alistair closed the door and came towards him. He saw Alistair's eyes narrow, taking in the wine bottle. _Insufferable prig!_

"Fearghal." Alistair's voice was hard.

"Alistair. I'd ask you to join me, but I'm afraid this is the last of it." Fearghal raised his glass to Alistair, then drank deeply. "Teagan's about somewhere. I'm sure he'd open another bottle, if you asked him."

"I wanted to talk about what happened... this afternoon." Alistair stood stiffly, almost to attention, except that he had shed his armour and was clad only in shirt and breeches.

"I don't," snapped Fearghal, raising his glass to his lips again.

"Is there a better time to discuss it than right now?"

Alistair's righteous tone set Fearghal's teeth on edge. Fearghal shrugged and turned his gaze back to the fire.

"You let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself! With blood magic! How could you _do_ that?" demanded Alistair furiously.

"It was her choice, Alistair," said Fearghal draining the glass and setting it down on the floor beside the empty bottle; determined not to let Alistair needle him. Not tonight.

"She was grasping at straws! Of course she would sacrifice herself; she felt guilty for what had happened! There must have been another way. This is the arl's _wife_ we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him?" Alistair's voice rose as he warmed to his theme.

Fearghal snorted. "I don't really care what he says." He looked at the empty bottle. _Maybe_ _ **I**_ _should go and find Teagan and scrounge up another bottle._ He started to pull himself up out of the chair.

"I just don't understand how you could do it; how you could make that decision. I owe the arl more than this!" Alistair tried to stifle the anger that flared in the face of Fearghal's indifference.

"Right now, I don't really care what you think," sighed Fearghal. "I'm going to get some more wine. Want some?"

Alistair grabbed Fearghal's arm as he tried to push past him. "This is typical of you, isn't it?" he sneered. "I don't know why I should have expected any different."

Fearghal felt his fragile grip on his temper fray. He shook his arm free of Alistair's grip. "You think I should have killed the boy?" he demanded, angrily.

"I-I..." stammered Alistair, suddenly wary of the steely look in Fearghal's eye.

"Would _you_ have killed him?" demanded Fearghal. Seeing the hesitation in Alistair's eyes, he continued angrily, "No. You're _too good_ to kill children, but you expect me to do it! I suppose you think it's easy? After all, it's _only a child_ , they can't fight back! Just a flick of your sword; simple really!"

Fearghal placed his hand on Alistair's chest and pushed him backwards a step. "Tell me, Alistair; Have you ever _seen_ a child that's been cut down by a sword?"

"N-no," stammered Alistair, backing up a step, as a furious Fearghal advanced on him.

"I didn't think so," ground out Fearghal. "Believe me, it's not pretty. Their little guts tend to make a mess all over the floor."

Alistair paled at Fearghal's words. "I-I didn't mean... it's just Arl Eamon..."

"Ah, now we get to the rub. Arl Eamon... you're doting foster father," sneered Fearghal. "He's why you're upset. You couldn't give a shit about Lady Isolde. You don't understand why she did what she did. How could you? You've never had a mother, much less one that would _die_ for you. You're just worried about what the man who treated you like a stray dog will think about you."

"That's not fair," mumbled Alistair.

"Fair?" crowed Fearghal. "How old are you, Alistair? Five? You're pathetic! That woman died _willingly_ , to save her son, and here you are, quibbling because you're afraid the Arl will think badly of _you_."

Fearghal's face twisted in a scornful grin. "The same Arl who made you, _the King's son_ , sleep in his stable and dumped you on the chantry when his wife objected to the petty gossip that pegged you as _his_ bastard, not the King's!"

Alistair didn't even know he was going to hit Fearghal until his fist lashed out; all he knew was he wanted to stop that mouth, that vicious mouth that exposed his every hurt and held it up for ridicule.

Fearghal staggered backwards at the blow. He felt the sting in his lip, where it had split against his teeth. Oddly, the blow didn't anger him, if anything it amused him. "Oh ho!" he mocked, laughing, "The chantry boy has balls after all! I was beginning to think they'd gelded you in that monastery, Alist... "

The next blow almost had him seeing stars. He went flying backwards, coming to a halt abruptly against the wall. He giggled stupidly as he felt his legs start to give way.

As Alistair advanced on Fearghal, who was sliding down the wall, a part of him finally understood the savage pleasure he'd seen in Fearghal as he'd beaten the bandit at Lothering and the thug in the tavern just a few days ago. To give in to anger, to surrender to it... it was liberating somehow. Alistair leaned down and pulled Fearghal upright, drawing his fist back. Fearghal blinked at him, still chuckling. A little trickle of blood hung on his lower lip. Alistair felt his anger fade; suddenly he wanted nothing more than to lick the blood from Fearghal's mouth, to kiss the rapidly swelling lip.

He could hear the blood roaring in his ears as he leaned in... then suddenly a strong hand grabbed his still-raised arm. Voices, raised in alarm, called his name. More hands pulled him back, hustling him towards the door, out into the brightly lit corridor.


	26. Chapter 26

Sten didn't let go of Alistair, even when the warrior went limp in his hands, all the fight gone out of him. Alistair looked round and flushed with shame at the shocked faces that surrounded him. Leliana, with her eyes wide; Wynne, managing to look startled and disappointed at the same time; a troubled and bemused Bann Teagan; Morrigan, smirking rather than surprised. Wynne glared at him, then pushed past, going into the library.

Bann Teagan opened a door a little way down the corridor. "Alistair," he murmured.

Sten finally let go of Alistair's arms; Alistair heard his heavy footsteps retreating down the corridor. Leliana and Morrigan drifted away and Alistair stepped through the door to find himself in a small sitting room. He stood stiffly until Teagan closed the door, sighing, and told him to sit down. Alistair perched himself on the edge of a sofa watching Teagan as he crossed the room to a cabinet, drawing out two brandy glasses and pouring a generous measure into each glass. Teagan came and held out a glass to Alistair, who regarded it suspiciously.

"Maker's breath, Alistair! You're not in the chantry anymore!"

Stung by the irritation in Teagan's voice, Alistair accepted the glass, nursing it in his large hands.

"Do you want to tell me what that was all about?"

"Not really," replied Alistair sullenly. He raised the glass to his lips, sipping the brandy, feeling the slight burn as it went down.

"I know I haven't seen you for a long time, but the Alistair I knew wasn't a boy who got into fights." Teagan shrugged. "I suppose people change."

"I'm not proud of what I've done! I lost my temper and... I shouldn't have done." Alistair set his glass down on a side table and leaned back on the sofa. "It's just... he's so... " He growled in frustration.

"I was speaking to him earlier. He told me a little of what happened at Highever. He was upset and I suggested the library might be a quiet place where he could be alone for a while."

Alistair groaned and leaned forward, his head in his hands. He reached for his brandy glass and looked over at Teagan. "Do you know him well, Bann Teagan?"

"I think we can dispense with formalities, Alistair. Just Teagan, please. And no, not well. I knew his father quite well, although we usually met at Denerim. Fergus often came with his father to the capital, but Fearghal rarely did." Teagan chuckled. "Bryce used to call Fearghal his 'mabari pup' and always implied that turning Fearghal loose on the court would be akin to letting his hound run free there; chaos and upset all round."

"I didn't even know who he was until yesterday. I mean, I knew he was from Highever and that something awful happened up there but... " he shrugged, "Warden's aren't supposed to ask about another's past. Duncan said he'd tell me more about him after the battle but then... " Alistair gulped his brandy, prompting a small coughing fit.

"I can imagine that's made things... difficult." said Teagan.

Alistair snorted. "Something like that," he said dryly. "You know, I can see why Duncan conscripted him. On the face of it, he's excellent Warden material; a skilled warrior, well-educated and so on, but... after what happened to his home, his family... I don't think he's quite what Duncan had in mind. Maker forgive me for saying it, but I think it might have been kinder if Duncan had left him where he was."

He flushed, ashamed of the words as soon as they were out his mouth. "I mean... I don't wish he was _dead_... but... "

Teagan smiled and heaved himself out of the easy chair, crossing the room and fetching the brandy bottle. "I know what you mean, Alistair." He poured more brandy into Alistair's glass, then topped up his own.

"He's just so... difficult, unpredictable! It would be easier if... most of the time he's so furious and I could live with that, but sometimes he's completely different and it's such a _relief_ , then it's gone again." Alistair groaned. "Ugh, I'm not sure what I'm even trying to say."

Teagan sipped his brandy thoughtfully. "The few times I met him, he was very easy to get along with. Lively, intelligent, charismatic, not at all interested in his position... much more interested in people than propriety. In some ways, he would have been a breath of fresh air at court."

Alistair nodded. "It's like I see glimpses of that person, then he's gone and instead I'm having to deal with this raging lunatic!"

"That man's still there, Alistair. Given what he's been through, it's a wonder Fearghal's functioning at all. He's lost everything he holds dear and had little time to grieve. I suspect he hasn't even begun to let go yet, never mind start to move on. He will, in time, I hope." Teagan pulled a rueful face. "Life carries on, regardless."

"Did he tell you what happened? At Highever?"

"The bare bones of it. Howe tricked the Teyrn into sending Fergus and his men ahead to Ostagar; claimed his own men had been delayed. Once they'd left, Howe let his men into the castle and... the rumours say that there were no survivors, and I mean _none_. Fearghal pretty much confirmed that."

Teagan sipped his brandy. "Fergus was married, you know; they had a son. He would have been five or six."

Alistair gulped his own brandy as Fearghal's words came back to him _. 'Have you ever_ _ **seen**_ _a child that's been cut down by a sword? Their little guts tend to make a mess all over the floor.'_

"Duncan said he had to conscript Fearghal and that even then, he refused to leave. He had to knock him out to get him out of there," said Alistair quietly.

"Well, by all accounts, Duncan and Fearghal were the only two people to survive that night."

"Did you know that the Couslands have been attainted?" asked Alistair.

Teagan's eyes widened with shock. "What? Why? Where did you hear this?"

"At a tavern a couple of days ago. They're saying that Howe was sent there to arrest the Teyrn for treason and that he resisted. He's accused of conspiring with the Orlesians."

"That's preposterous!" exclaimed Teagan. "Bryce Cousland would no more betray Ferelden to Orlais than... than... Loghain would! Does Fearghal know?"

"He knows," sighed Alistair. "It wasn't pretty!"

Alistair drained his glass and set it down. When Teagan moved to refill it, Alistair put his hand over the glass and shook his head. "I think I've had enough." He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"You need some sleep, Alistair. I've had some beds made up and your packs brought up from the inn. We're a bit short of staff at the moment; if you're hungry, you know where the kitchen is. Your things should be in the first room on the right, upstairs."

Alistair stood. "Thank you, Ba... er, Teagan. And thank you for the brandy... and for listening."

Teagan smiled. "It was the least I could do. Good night, Alistair."

"Good night, Teagan."

~o~O~o~

Alistair disappeared from view to be replaced by Zevran. "Your lip is bleeding, Warden. Would you like me to... kiss it better?"

"Not unless you want one to match it," said Fearghal, scowling at the elf.

Zevran grinned. "Then _you_ can kiss me better!"

"No-one will be kissing," Fearghal growled.

"What have I done to deserve such hostility? Or is it not what I've done, but rather... what I _am_?"

Fearghal rolled his eyes. "I didn't say that, I... "

"Fearghal, let me check your face."

Wynne manoeuvred past Zevran, and lifted a hand to Fearghal's face.

"It's just a fat lip, Wynne. There's no need to fuss." Fearghal swatted her hand away, scowling.

"You've taken several blows on top of the injuries you sustained in the brawl, just a few days ago." Wynne pursed her lips and shook her head. "Honestly, grown men fighting like boys. You should know better, and so should Alistair. I do hope you're not going to make a habit of this."

Fearghal tensed, his irritation growing. "Just leave it, Wynne. Go and see to Alistair or something."

"I really don't think... "

Fearghal pushed past her and flopped into a chair. "Just... go away."

Wynne glared at him, then leaned in toward Zevran. "Don't let him have any more to drink," she warned. Wynne left the room and Zevran sat in one of the other chairs near the fire, watching the Warden staring into the flames.

"So Fearghal, you were about to say... ?" murmured Zevran, smirking.

"Eh?" Fearghal looked blankly at Zevran.

"When Wynne came in. You said _'I didn't say that_ ', you were about to say something else."

Fearghal sighed. "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Is it that you don't like _elves_?" Zevran kept his voice neutral, watching Fearghal's reaction carefully.

Fearghal's eyes widened in surprise. "What? No!"

"You know, for a moment there, I wasn't sure if you and Alistair were fighting or whether we were interrupting a more... intimate moment." Zevran grinned slyly at Fearghal.

A bark of startled laughter escaped Fearghal. "Hah! Alistair's busy beating the snot out of me and you think we're having an _intimate_ moment?" He smirked at Zevran. "I think your _tastes_ might be too... exotic for me, Zevran."

"I didn't say they were _my_ tastes, Fearghal," retorted Zevran. He shrugged. "It was just that Alistair... well, he looked like he didn't know whether to hit you or kiss you."

"Ha ha! You thought the chantry boy was going to kiss a _man_? He'd sooner kiss my hound, believe me, Zev."

Zevran noticed the use of the nickname and smiled to himself as Fearghal continued, chuckling, "For The Maker's sake, don't tell him; he'll never forgive you. Or maybe you should, and we could see if a person really can die from blushing!"

~o~O~o~

Teagan followed Alistair out into the corridor and, hearing voices in the library, opened the door. Fearghal and Zevran were settled in armchairs in front of the fire. Fearghal looked up as Teagan entered. "Teagan, come and join us."

"I just came to see if you were all right, Fearghal," replied Teagan.

Fearghal fingered his split lip. "I'm fine. Someone ought to teach Alistair how to throw a punch properly; he should be doing a lot more damage."

"I'd be grateful if you'd conduct future sparring sessions outside," said Teagan.

Fearghal looked embarrassed. "Sorry about that, Teagan."

"Actually, I'm almost impressed. I saw Alistair take an awful lot of teasing as a boy, but I never saw him lash out like that. I don't think the man is so very different from the boy I knew."

Teagan paused, choosing his words carefully. "As I said, I'm almost impressed, except I have to wonder just how far you pushed Alistair to make him react. That's not impressive at all."

"He started it," growled Fearghal, sulkily.

When both Zevran and Teagan gaped at him, Fearghal groaned. "And I accused _him_ of being childish! I take your point, Teagan. I'll apologise in the morning." He drained his glass. "I think it's time I went to bed. I left my shield and sword in Eamon's study; I'll just go and fetch them before I turn in."

"I believe Zevran knows which room you're things were taken to?" When the assassin nodded, Teagan bade them both good night and headed upstairs to his own room.

Zevran followed Fearghal to the arl's study. As Fearghal stooped to retrieve his weapons, the Antivan started pulling open the drawers in the desk.

"What are you doing?"

Zevran grinned at the shocked-looking Warden. "I am just looking,"

"Looking for what? This is the arl's study; it's private."

"And you call Alistair naïve?" laughed Zevran. He shrugged. "I am not looking for anything in particular, just looking for anything that might be interesting."

Zevran poked around in the drawer as a fascinated Fearghal peered over his shoulder. "Pah! There is nothing of interest here, just old keepsakes."

Fearghal reached into the drawer and drew out an amulet. It was old and looked to have been broken, then put back together again.

Zevran frowned in confusion. "This interests you, Warden?"

"I think I know who it belongs to," Fearghal told him, slipping it into the pouch on his belt. "Come on. If I don't lie down soon, I'm going to fall down."

"Is that an invitation, Fearghal?" asked Zevran, grinning wickedly.

Fearghal stared at the assassin, then grinned back. "You're not my type, Zevran, but I need you to show which room my things are in."

Zevran followed him out of the door, pouting. "So you have a type? Tell me more about your type."


	27. Chapter 27

After a restless night of tossing and turning, interspersed with bad dreams, Fearghal gave up trying to sleep and got dressed. The sun was starting to rise, so hopefully there would a realistic prospect of breakfast. He spotted his small pouch on the nightstand and opened it, drawing out the amulet he'd found in Arl Eamon's desk. He tucked it into his pocket, then left his room.

Moving quietly up the corridor, Fearghal paused outside the room Zevran had pointed out as Alistair's, the night before. He was about to move on when he heard someone moving about. Deciding to get his apology over and done with, Fearghal knocked softly on the door. The sound of footsteps, then the door cracked open and Alistair peered cautiously out.

"Oh, it's you." Alistair swung the door open wide. He was wearing just a pair of breeches; from the towel hung around his neck, it looked like he'd just been shaving.

"Do you mind if I come in?"

Alistair shrugged and turned back into his room, discarding the towel and picking up a shirt.

Fearghal fidgeted. "I…um… I want to apologise. For what I said… last night."

Alistair's face was red as it emerged through the top of his shirt. "You're entitled to say what you feel.," he mumbled. "I-I shouldn't have hit you."

"I shouldn't have said it… any of it," said Fearghal, frowning.

"What? You didn't mean it? It isn't what you think?" scoffed Alistair, his face stiff.

"No… I mean… " Fearghal sighed. "It was how I said it… _why_ I said it. It had nothing to do with you, I was taking it out on you and I shouldn't have done that."

"So you _do_ think I'm pathetic, you just think you shouldn't have said anything," retorted Alistair, sarcastically.

"Maker's cock, Alistair!" burst out Fearghal. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shoving down his irritation. "I think you feel far more beholden to the arl than you should, but the way I expressed that was… harsh and insensitive. Can we just leave it at that?"

"I _would_ have done it, you know," said Alistair.

Fearghal frowned, momentarily confused, unable to follow Alistair's train of thought.

"Connor. If it had been necessary," explained Alistair.

"I was always taught that I shouldn't ask anyone to do something that I wasn't prepared to do myself." Fearghal's voice was flat. "If I couldn't have done it, I wouldn't have asked you to… you know."

Fearghal shrugged. "Anyway… " He turned towards the door.

Alistair nodded, tense and awkward.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," Fearghal turned, digging in his pocket. "I found this, I wondered if… " He held the amulet out to Alistair.

Frowning, Alistair took it from him, then his eyes went wide as he recognised it.

"My mother's amulet," he whispered. He stared at it, lost in memories, as he ran his fingers over the surface. When he looked up, Fearghal was gone.

Alistair shut the door quietly, then sat on the bed rubbing his fingers against the amulet. He slipped the chain over his head; the amulet was warm against his chest. With a sigh he flopped back on the bed. Fearghal always managed to wrong-foot him somehow. After last night he'd felt at the end of his tether with the man. This morning, Fearghal had appeared, offering his odd apology, which frankly didn't feel like much of an apology at all, then handed Alistair his mother's amulet. Alistair didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

' _I think you feel far more beholden to the arl than you should, but the way I expressed that was… harsh and insensitive._ '

Alistair frowned. _Is that really what Fearghal thinks?_ There was a small, deeply buried part of Alistair that bitterly resented the arl. On the rare occasion he allowed himself to examine that resentment, he'd felt guilty; he told himself that he should be grateful that Arl Eamon had taken him at all and had endured the years of gossip about his relationship to Alistair for as long as he did. _Did I deserve more? Wanting and deserving aren't the same thing. I know I always wanted more, but..._

Alistair's stomach growled loudly. With a sigh, he pushed his thoughts aside and went in search of breakfast. A servant directed him to the dining room and he was surprised to see Teagan in there, alone.

"Good morning, Alistair."

Alistair nodded, "Good morning, Teagan. Where's Fearghal? I thought he was on his way down."

"He's taken his breakfast upstairs. He wanted to talk to Connor. He promised Isolde he would."

"Maker! I don't envy him _that_ conversation."

Teagan shook his head. "I think telling Connor how she died is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I have no idea how I'm going to tell Eamon when... if he wakes up."

~o~O~o~

Fearghal balanced the tray on one arm and tapped at the door before pushing it open. Connor was sitting on the bed; he barely looked up as Fearghal entered.

"Hello, Connor, I'm Fearghal. I brought some breakfast."

The boy looked doubtfully at the heavily laden tray that Fearghal set down on the bed. "I-I don't feel very hungry, ser."

Fearghal smiled sympathetically. "No, I don't suppose you do, but you should try at least. Don't worry, most of that's for me."

Fearghal pulled up a chair and sat by the bed. He picked up two thick slices of bread and put together a bacon and egg sandwich, which he handed to Connor. "Eat."

As Connor nibbled on his sandwich, he found himself fascinated, watching the big man eat. Fearghal's first sandwich and several sausages quickly disappeared and he tucked into a second and then a third. Fearghal picked up a napkin and wiped his hands and mouth, then picked up one of the large mugs of tea and sipped at it.

Connor put the sandwich down on the tray. Every mouthful he'd managed to swallow was like sawdust in his mouth. He looked at Fearghal uncertainly. "I can't manage any more."

Fearghal nodded and picked up the other mug, holding it out to Connor.

"You were with my mother? At the end?" asked Connor, quietly.

Fearghal nodded. "She didn't suffer, Connor. It was very quick."

"Truly?" asked Connor, sounding unconvinced. "Uncle Teagan said so, but I wasn't sure if he was trying to make me feel better."

"Truly. It was over in moments."

At Fearghal's words, Connor let out the breath he didn't even realise he'd been holding. "I... this is all my fault. If I hadn't... "

"No! It's not your fault! Things just got... out of control. Sometimes they do." Fearghal sighed. "Sometimes, no matter how much we want to... there's just nothing we can do to stop things happening."

Connor looked searchingly at Fearghal, hearing something in his voice.

"Uncle Teagan was angry with her, when he found out about Jowan."

Fearghal sipped his tea, choosing his words carefully. "Your mother made a bad decision, but for the right reasons. She loved you and was trying to be a good mother."

"Is that why she... ? She thought it was all her fault?"

"No. She sacrificed herself because she loved you. She would have done it, no matter what the circumstances." Fearghal took a deep breath. "My own m-mother did something similar."

Connor's eyes went wide. "She did?"

Fearghal nodded. His hand shook so badly, the tea slopped over the side of his mug, splashing onto the bedcover. Frowning, Fearghal set it down on the tray. He momentarily lifted his eyes to meet Connor's, then looked away.

"It... It's not an easy thing to live with. I-I try to look on it as a gift, s-something that she g-gave me." Fearghal cleared his throat. "I remember Mother Mallol saying that while it was better to give than to receive, sometimes it was harder to receive; to accept something in the spirit it was given, with good grace. I don't think I ever truly understood what she meant until now."

Fearghal looked back at Connor and smiled unsteadily. "You mother loved you, Connor, and she wanted you to know that she did what she did, gladly. She told me, ' _I do this out of love for him and love is never a burden._ ' Do you understand, Connor?"

"I-I think so." Connor's voice was unsteady, his eyes brimming with tears.

Fearghal stood, briefly setting his hand on Connor's shoulder, then picked up the tray.

~o~O~o~

The people of Redcliffe gathered on the small dock by the lake following the service at the chantry. Several of the men moved forwards to the row of shrouded corpses and carefully loaded them into the prepared oil-soaked boats. The boats were flimsily made; not intended to last long. Two, sometimes three, bodies were loaded into each boat, except for the last one. Lady Isolde would sail into the Fade unaccompanied.

The men untied the boats and pushed them away from the dock. Slowly they drifted away, picked up by the current. As they cleared the dock, the men picked up their bows, dipping the prepared arrows into a brazier, and firing the flaming arrows into the boats.

The voice of the Revered Mother rang out as the boats burst into flames.

"Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters, doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies eternity."

The mourners on the dock bowed their heads, some weeping. Teagan, standing with Connor, put an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. The boy turned his face into his uncle's side, his shoulders heaving.

Fearghal stood, every muscle tense, fighting to maintain his self-control. _I wonder what Howe's men did with the dead?_ It wasn't something he'd allowed himself to think of before, but seeing this ceremony, so similar to the way things were done at Highever; it dominated his thoughts. He couldn't see Howe wasting much time and energy on decent funerals for the dead. _For the murdered._

Alistair noticed Fearghal stiffen and watched him out of the corner of his eye. He'd been caught up in thoughts of his own dead. He'd heard it said in the past that funerals were important, but had never understood the need the bereaved seem to have for such a ritual. Now he did. _Duncan and the others... lying out there, pawed over by darkspawn. I wish I could say goodbye._

As the boats moved towards the horizon, people started to drift away from the dock.

Teagan came over to Alistair and Fearghal. "Thank you both for coming. I appreciate it and I know that the people of Redcliffe do. We have so much to thank you for."

Fearghal dragged his eyes away from the burning boats and nodded stiffly. Alistair fidgeted, unsure what to say.

"Fearghal, I've asked Owen to provide you with some better armour. Alistair, there's a shield, it was my father's. No-one's used it in an age, nor likely to for the foreseeable future. Owen's checking it over to make sure it's serviceable. I'd like you to have it."

Teagan held up his hand as they started to protest. "You've both done so much for us here. It's not nearly enough, believe me. I'll see you both later."

Teagan collected Connor and headed back up the hill towards the castle.


	28. Chapter 28

Teagan ushered the two wardens, Wynne and Zevran into the small sitting room and poured a generous snifter of brandy for each of them, then one for himself. Alistair and Fearghal took up positions at each end of the sofa, stiffly formal with each other. Teagan cast a surreptitious glance at them. _At least they're not fighting any more._ Zevran lounged casually in an armchair, while Wynne seated herself more sedately in another armchair. Teagan passed out the brandy glasses then seated himself in the remaining chair.

Zevran sipped his brandy, then grinned. "Antivan?" he asked.

"Only the best for my brother," said Teagan, smiling.

"He's going to send you a bar bill when he wakes up, if you're not careful," joked Fearghal.

"Er... Wynne. I wanted to ask you about what you found when you examined the arl. I'm assuming there's nothing immediate you can do, otherwise you'd have done it already."

"Indeed," she said, her manner a little cool. "Unfortunately the exact poison used remains a mystery. It appears that Jowan was never told very much about it. He maintains that he destroyed the vial upon using the poison so we have very little to go on. Frankly, I've never seen anything like it. The poison doesn't seem intended to kill, or even damage, merely to incapacitate. If it wasn't for the fact that he can't be woken, it would appear as if Arl Eamon is in a deep, but natural sleep."

"So he's not in any danger?" asked Fearghal.

"On the face of it, no. However, bodies are made to move around. The longer he lies there the weaker he will get. His muscles are starting to stiffen, his lungs aren't functioning correctly. As times goes on the risk of organ failure or pneumonia becomes greater and if that happens, there will only be so much I can do."

"It doesn't make any sense! Why would you poison someone to put them to sleep?" Fearghal looked across at Zevran.

"There is a rare group of poisons that can be used to incapacitate a person. They are rare because the ingredients are scarce and therefore very expensive, but also because usually the intent of a poison is to kill a person, yes?" Seeing Fearghal nod, Zevran continued. "Usually, the poison is administered and some short time later the antidote will be given to wake the person up again. You understand it is not practical, usually, to keep a person in this state for very long and as Wynne had told you, the person can sicken and die in such a state. In the instances I have heard of, the antidote was administered within a couple of days."

"But Eamon has been asleep now for weeks," protested Teagan. "Plus, I'm sure Jowan never had the antidote."

Zevran shrugged. "Who can guess at the extent of Loghain's plan? I would wager it is he who has the antidote, but as to how and when, or even _if_ he intended to use it... The active ingredient for both the poison and antidote are found only in the Tevinter Imperium. They control their sale closely, for they are valuable commodities. The knowledge of how to create them is held by only a select few and each poison is crafted individually with a matching antidote."

Fearghal was mystified. "Tevinter? I'd thought that Loghain was an unlikely person to hire an Antivan assassin; exotic Tevinter poisons seem even more unlikely. I wonder if this is Howe's doing too?"

"If that is so, my friend, it would mean that Howe and Loghain have been working together for some time," said Zevran.

Fearghal nodded absently, lost in thought; the mention of Loghain's name in the same breath as Howe's had sparked a realisation in him. _The War Council, before Ostagar! Loghain was there and must know who I was, which means Howe definitely knows I'm not only alive, but a Grey Warden._ "Thank you, Zev. You've been very helpful."

 _That's the second time he's called me Zev._ Zevran shrugged nonchalantly. "I have done little enough. Sadly I am unable to provide a solution, merely information about the problem."

Alistair cleared his throat. "So, we need to get our hands on this antidote... assuming Loghain hasn't destroyed it?"

"I suppose that depends on what his intention was at the start, and we have no way of knowing that," replied Fearghal.

"There may be another solution," said Teagan quietly. "Isolde had got it into her head that the Urn of Sacred Ashes could heal Eamon. She'd been in touch with a scholar from Denerim, Brother Genetivi. I thought Isolde was wasting time on a wild goose chase, but I was going through some of her papers earlier and he'd been in touch with her recently and, well, it sounded like he might really be on to something."

Fearghal groaned. "So our options are trying to get the antidote from Loghain or finding a mythical religious relic." He looked across at Alistair. "Unless you have any other suggestions, Alistair?"

Alistair looked startled at being asked for ideas, and blushed. He shook his head and sipped at his brandy, feeling foolish.

Fearghal looked thoughtful. "Either way, we have to go to Denerim. Once we're there we can try and find out more about what Loghain's up to and go and see this scholar. To be honest, I don't think we can get close enough to Loghain to get the antidote. If his security is that lax, we'd be as well letting Zevran loose on him." He grinned, "Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone."

"If we get that close to him, you can set _me_ loose on him," growled Alistair.

Both Teagan and Fearghal raised their eyebrows at Alistair's vehemence, recognising it as unusual, but neither remarked on it.

"We also have to consider the possibility that we will fail," said Fearghal quietly, with an apologetic glance at Teagan.

"I-I know, but let's cross that bridge when... if we come to it," said Teagan. "If the worst comes to the worst, then know that I will support you wholeheartedly; however, Eamon is the man you really need. He has far more political experience than I and has much more influence." He smiled uncertainly at the two wardens. "If anyone can do this, I believe you can." He stood, setting down his empty glass. "If you'll excuse me, there are some things I need to see to and I'm sure you two need to make plans. If you need anything, let me know. Good night."

Wynne and Zevran also bade them good night and followed Bann Teagan out of the door.

Fearghal groaned after the door had closed behind Teagan and Zevran. "Maker! I wish I had half as much... confidence in our ability to work miracles as Teagan seems to have." He leaned back and stretched his legs out. "I suppose we should leave for Denerim as soon as possible... look up this Brother Genetivi. He should be easier to get to than Loghain, at any rate." Fearghal frowned. "His name seems familiar, but I can't place it."

"He's a historian. They had some of his books at the compound in Denerim. He wrote a history of the first blight, amongst other things," Alistair told him.

Fearghal looked surprised but Alistair was unsure if it was because Genetivi had written such a thing or whether it was because Alistair knew he had. Fearghal shrugged. "Maybe that's it. Fergus was always more interested in that sort of thing than me," he said, then caught himself realising what he'd said. He looked across at Alistair. "My brother," he explained awkwardly.

Fearghal looked away, as Alistair nodded. _How could I just mention him casually, like that? As if I'd forgotten?_

Alistair watched him carefully, seeing the pain flare in Fearghal's eyes. He tensed, waiting for the anger that always seemed to follow, but there was no sign of it; instead Fearghal looked sad, lost in thought.

Alistair cleared his throat anxiously. "I...um... I wanted to thank you. For this." He pulled at the chain around his neck and fished the amulet out of his shirt."

"I wasn't sure if it was the right one... but... well, I'm glad it was."

"I can't believe you remembered." Seeing Fearghal's look of surprise, Alistair felt his face grow hot, as he mumbled, "I'm not used to people taking much notice of anything say." He winced at his own words. "Sorry, I'm being pathetic again."

Fearghal felt a flash of irritation. "Maker's breath, Alistair, just stop! If you say something, I'll listen. I tend to do that when people speak to me... unless it's Leliana talking about ribbons... or shoes."

Alistair couldn't help but smile. "All my life I've... ," he paused, trying to find the right words. "It was always made plain to me that I was nothing, nobody. I was to have no... aspirations. I was to keep quiet and not draw attention to myself; just shut up and do what I was told."

Fearghal snorted in disgust. "You know, I have to wonder at what Maric and Eamon were thinking of. I mean, I understand the fear of you maybe raising a rebellion or something, but even so... sleeping in the stable? And then sending you off to the chantry... I suppose it's one way of making sure you don't produce any more pretenders to the throne." He chuckled suddenly. "I wonder what Eamon thought when you became a Grey Warden."

Alistair paled; he felt sick. _Oh, Maker! He has no idea._

"What?" demanded Fearghal.

"We need to talk about some of the changes that happen when you become a Grey Warden."

"That sounds ominous." Fearghal eyed Alistair warily, then got up and fetched the brandy bottle. He splashed a measure into his own glass, then leaned over and poured some into Alistair's.

"Tell me about these changes," demanded Fearghal. "The hunger... that's one, isn't?"

Alistair nodded and gulped his brandy. "Yes. You'll also be stronger than before, tire less easily, heal more quickly. Duncan also told me that it..." Alistair hesitated, blushing, "it affects fertility. It's almost unheard of for a Warden to father a child after their Joining. In the rare instance it does happen, it's usually soon afterwards, within a year." He looked away, muttering, "I'm _never_ going to have children to threaten the throne."

Alistair looked across at Fearghal and took a deep breath. "There's also The Calling," he said.

Fearghal was staring at him, his expression a mix of horror and anger.

"What?" asked Alistair.

Fearghal collected himself and ignored Alistair's question. "What's The Calling?" he asked, his voice cold.

"The taint; it catches up with us eventually. The dreams get worse... you start to change." Alistair drained his brandy. "Most Wardens go to the Deep Roads at the end. You have about thirty years, give or take. It's not exact." Alistair watched Fearghal carefully, unnerved by his odd reaction. "I'm sorry, I should have told you sooner."

Alistair flinched when Fearghal hurled his empty glass at the wall. "That bastard!" he spat.

"Who?"

"Duncan, that's who!" raged Fearghal, leaping up and pacing the floor.

"Look, I know thirty years doesn't sound like much, but we're in a blight... "

Fearghal stopped and gaped at Alistair. "Not The Calling, you fool! "

Alistair frowned. _He's angry because he can't have children?_ "B-but I thought you only l-liked m-men..." he stammered.

"It's got nothing to do with what I _like_ , Alistair." Fearghal groaned, trying to get a grip on his temper. "My parents... I promised... I'm the last Cousland."

"Oh, I see, but... " Alistair sighed. "It's important to you, isn't it? Carrying on your family name, I mean." He looked away. "I've always hated mine; it's been the bane of my life for as long as can remember."

Some of Fearghal's anger faded. "Pfft! Theirin's... johnnies-come-lately... or so my grandfather apparently said." His mouth twisted, almost into a smile.

Alistair stared at him, then sniggered.

Fearghal relaxed slightly. "He was a crusty old coot, by all accounts. Anyway, to answer your question... yes, it's important to me. More than I thought." He threw himself into the armchair and stared at the flames, almost talking to himself. "When I was growing up... it was always Fergus who was going to inherit, and that suited me just fine; he was so much more... suitable. Then he got married and Oren came along fairly quickly. I was off the hook, so to speak."

Fearghal looked up at Alistair, who was perched on the arm of the sofa, listening intently. "It was easy to mock the idea that bloodlines and tradition were important, when I knew that Fergus was going to be the Teyrn after Father." He shrugged. "In some ways, I still think it's ridiculous that someone should have so much, just by an accident of birth, but now... the thought that there will be no Couslands at Highever, after so long... "

Fearghal smiled weakly. "Like you keep reminding me, there's a Blight. I suppose if we can't do something about that, there won't be a Highever to worry about... and if we do, well, I daresay there's a couple of cousins stashed away somewhere that could step up."

Alistair frowned. "Why didn't you say anything... about who you are, I mean?"

"Why would I?" Fearghal asked, obviously surprised.

"Why... ? I don't believe you! You call me an idiot for not telling you who _my_ father was, then not ten minutes later I find out that you're the last survivor of one of the oldest and most important families in Ferelden!" Alistair's voice rose indignantly.

Fearghal opened his mouth, then closed it again. Eventually he said, "I don't know. It just never occurred to me. Besides, you said that Wardens leave their old lives behind; no titles or even family names." Fearghal looked away briefly. _Liar! You couldn't tell anyone who you were because you couldn't bear having to explain..._ He looked up and saw Alistair looked sceptical. "What's yours? Or what was it?" Fearghal asked, trying to change the subject.

"I don't think I ever had one," admitted Alistair, looking embarrassed. "I've always been just 'Alistair'. I stood out like a sore thumb in the chantry; templars usually go by their family name. The only exceptions are foundlings and few of them are chosen to train as templars."

"So why did you keep your birthright a secret?" asked Fearghal.

"I'm not used to talking to anyone about it who didn't already know. I was always told to keep it a secret. Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. I'm not sure who told _him_ ," Alistair explained. "I did think about telling you after the battle...I don't know. It seemed too late. How do you just tell someone that?"

Fearghal looked doubtful. "It's come up, Alistair."

"Yes, well... I suppose part of me kind of liked you not knowing," mumbled Alistair, blushing, not meeting Fearghal's eye.

Alistair looked back at Fearghal and caught his puzzled look. "It's just anyone who's ever found out has treated me differently afterwards. I become the 'bastard prince' instead of just being Alistair. I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it's shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I certainly don't want to be king. The very idea terrifies me."

Fearghal nodded slowly. "I suppose I can understand that. Anyway, from what you've told me, neither of us can inherit and, if we do, well... there won't be any more after us so it would be pretty pointless anyway." He rubbed his hand over his face wearily. "I'm going to turn in. I think we should spend tomorrow morning getting ready for the long trip back to Denerim, then set off early in the afternoon. Who knows, maybe Teagan can lend us a tent. Goodnight, Alistair."

Alistair murmured, "Good night," and watched him go.


	29. Chapter 29

Alistair sighed and rolled onto his back. Sleeping in a bed was a luxury he'd not had for months. He'd been so looking forward to a good night's sleep, but instead found himself restless. The events of the last few days just went round and round in his head. More particularly, thoughts of Fearghal. His hand came up and he stroked his mother's amulet between his thumb and forefinger. He still didn't know where Fearghal had found it and to ask seemed ungracious. For all Fearghal's protestations, it still amazed Alistair that Fearghal had not only listened to what he said, but had remembered it weeks later.

 _I nearly kissed him!_ Alistair groaned softly to himself, feeling his face flush even though he was alone in the dark. The thought was both shameful, yet exhilarating at the same time. _Thank the Maker, Fearghal didn't appear to notice...if the others had come in and seen..._ Alistair squirmed with embarrassment at the thought. _But if they hadn't come in..._ Alistair indulged in a fantasy where he'd leaned in and kissed Fearghal, who had enthusiastically kissed him back. His breath hitched and he felt himself harden. He shook himself mentally. _This is stupid! If I'd kissed him, he'd have hit me so hard, I'd have landed in the middle of next week._

Fearghal had made it quite clear that he wasn't interested in 'chantry virgins'. _Besides, there's Rory. He clearly loved him... still loves him._ Alistair sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. _I must be mad! He's not interested in me. He'll_ never _be interested in me._ That thought was depressing; to have finally admitted just how attractive he found Fearghal, and know it was never going to amount to anything. _I don't even like him very much! Why do I feel so drawn to him?_ But there had been glimpses of a different Fearghal. Just tonight, when Fearghal had got so angry, he'd reined his temper in and even made a joke when Alistair had bemoaned his own family background. _Was he trying to cheer me up?_

Alistair's stomach growled. He reached for his breeches and shirt; if he didn't get something to eat, he'd never sleep. The stone floors were cold under his feet as he crept down to the kitchen. The kitchen was dark, except for the dim glow cast by the fire, which had been banked down for the night. Alistair looked around for a lamp, his eyes passing over the cellar door. Fearghal's words came back to him. ' _Who knows, maybe Teagan can lend us a tent._ ' Spying a lamp, he quickly lit it and headed down into the cellar.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The nightmares were as vivid and as frequent as ever. He sighed and sat up. If he wasn't having nightmares about darkspawn, they were about what had happened that night at Castle Cousland. Occasionally, his dreams were happier, reliving moments of pleasure with his family or Rory, but then waking up and _remembering_ was so much harder. His stomach gurgled loudly. Wearily, Fearghal got out of bed and pulled on some clothes.

Once in the kitchen, it took him a minute to find some lamps. Having lit one, he headed into the pantry. As he emerged he saw a lamp at the far end of the room and almost dropped the basket of eggs he was carrying, then relaxed as he recognised an equally startled Alistair.

"Maferath's balls, Alistair! What the hell were you doing down there?" Fearghal snapped.

"I... er... came down to get something to eat. I thought I heard a noise... and after... you know, I thought I'd better take a look."

Fearghal's eyebrows shot up. "You went to investigate what you thought might be more undead while unarmed and clad in only your breeches and a shirt?"

Alistair flushed and fidgeted. "Well, I was still half asleep... I didn't think," he mumbled.

Fearghal set the eggs and his lamp down, shaking his head at Alistair's folly. He beckoned Alistair over as he headed back into the pantry. "Come and hold a lamp up, while I see what else there is."

Fearghal re-emerged, bearing ham and cheese, then started preparing two huge omelettes while Alistair looked on in open admiration.

"I thought you told Leliana you couldn't cook."

"I can't cook... not proper meals, anyway. Just things I learned going out on patrol with the men. I can roast rabbits, fry things, make a basic stew, stuff like that." He looked up from the two frying pans he was watching. "Can you find a couple of plates?"

"I can do stew," said Alistair with a grin. "Throw everything into a pot, stir, and when it goes grey, it's done." Alistair set out a couple of plates and what looked to be two serving spoons. Catching Fearghal's look, he shrugged. "They were all I could find."

Fearghal tipped the omelettes out onto the plates and the two men ate in silence. The food didn't take half as long to eat as it did to cook; Alistair picked up the dirty dishes and stacked them in the sink. He stretched and yawned. As quietly as they were able, they headed back upstairs. As they reached the corridor there rooms were on, they were surprised to see Zevran coming from the direction of the private family quarters.

Zevran winked at Fearghal, who grinned at the realisation of where he'd been.

Alistair glared at Zevran suspiciously. "What are you doing creeping around in the middle of the night?"

"Why, I'm returning to my room," replied Zevran, with a bland smile at Alistair.

"Those are the family quarters," Alistair accused.

"Indeed they are, Alistair," Zevran agreed.

"Well, you shouldn't be in there! What were you doing?" Alistair glanced across at Fearghal and was surprised to see he merely looked amused.

"Let's just say that Bann Teagan wished to know more of... how things are done in Antiva." Zevran licked his lips and leered at Alistair.

Alistair frowned. "What things?" His eyes went wide and he flushed scarlet as he realised the answer to the question before Zevran could reply. "Oh, Maker! You mean you and... !"

It took all Zevran's self-control not to laugh outright at the shocked expression on Alistair's face. Without another word, a stunned Alistair bolted to his room.

Zevran looked across at Fearghal, who was also struggling not to laugh.

"Like I said, a _chantry boy_ ," said Fearghal, sniggering. "Good night, Zev." Chuckling softly, Fearghal headed to his room.

Fearghal was still grinning to himself as he stripped off his clothes and slid between the cool sheets. Alistair had been so shocked at the realisation that Zevran had been with Teagan; the look on his face had been priceless. Fearghal could barely remember a time when he had been so innocent. _Thank the Maker I wasn't ever sent to live in a monastery; it would have been torture!_ Fearghal sniggered to himself, then frowned as he remembered the imprisoned templar in the Mage Tower; the man's reaction when he had seen Alistair. _'You! Always they show me you!'_ The man's words had implied feelings for Alistair.

Fearghal had been so busy staring at the templar, he hadn't noted Alistair's reaction. Not until the templar had flung that jibe at him. _'They used to call you... Lord Alistair.'_ Alistair was obviously hurt by it. It had been... unexpected? The source of the nickname had been apparent in the bathhouse. Unexpectedly, Fearghal felt a flare of sympathy for his fellow Warden. To have everyone jump to the obvious conclusion and be unable to tell the truth must have been hard, especially for a boy.

 _'It was always made plain to me that I was nothing, nobody. I was to have no... aspirations. I was to keep quiet and not draw attention to myself; just shut up and do what I was told.'_ It was no wonder Alistair was so reticent and self-effacing. _But not when he fights... then he's a different man._ Although Alistair's was a more defensive style than Fearghal's own, he was undeniably extremely good at it. More than that, he was confident and assured. Fearghal frowned in the dark. It was almost as if he was two different people. In battle he was a confident, able warrior yet the rest of the time he was a buffoon and, mostly, he was the butt of his own jokes. _I wonder which one is the_ _ **real**_ _Alistair?_

Fearghal pushed away the tendril of shame that unfurled as he thought of his treatment of Alistair, of his unkind assessment to Teagan. _And not just Alistair. I've been... unbearable. Bennet was right; my father would weep to see me now. I've turned into everything he despised._ Fearghal turned over, blinking back the tears that threatened. He couldn't cry, he just couldn't. If he started, he'd never stop. But there was no anger to hold them back.

Fearghal growled and threw the covers back. He leaped out of bed and paced up and down. He could feel his muscles tensing. He needed to fight something... someone. He needed to keep the dam in place. He grabbed his breeches and thrust his legs into them, pulled his shirt over his head and then started to don his armour. Holding on to the spark of an idea, he shut out everything else.

The corridor led him to the door he sought. He hammered at it, then paced up and down the corridor.

Alistair's startled face appeared. "Fearghal, is something... "

"I can't sleep. I need to... I wondered if... were you asleep?"

"No." Alistair frowned, puzzled by his unexpected visitor. Fearghal prowled up and down the corridor, clad in his armour. _Is there trouble? Has something happened?_

"Do you want to spar?" demanded Fearghal.

 _Is he drunk?_ Alistair gaped at him.

"You were keen enough to fight yesterday." Fearghal's grin was both challenging and predatory at the same time.

"It's the middle of the night," stated Alistair, pointing out the obvious.

"So? I can't sleep; you can't sleep. I need to get used to fighting in this armour; you need to get used to that new shield of yours. It's not like the practice yard is going to be busy." Fearghal glared at Alistair, his head cocked to one side.

"I'll be down in five minutes," said Alistair, closing the door.

When Alistair arrived in the practice yard, Fearghal had already selected a blunted weapon from the rack and had his shield ready on his arm. He was roaming up and down the length of the yard, impatiently. Alistair watched him for a moment, noting the tension, the restlessness, then he descended the steps into the yard and made his way to the weapons rack. He took his time choosing a weapon, selecting first one then another, balancing them in his hand, until he found one that felt right. Alistair shrugged his shield off his back and slipped his arm through the _enarmes_ ; he turned to Fearghal.

"I'm ready when you are," he told Fearghal.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Fearghal charged at him, roaring. Alistair barely got his shield up in time to block Fearghal's blow. Alistair emptied his mind, as he'd been taught, and focused on what was happening in front of him. He was thankful that this was just a sparring bout and that there were no others to worry about; Fearghal was easily one warrior's work on his own.

Fearghal let the anger take him, sword and shield, the only reminders of his family that he had, were an extension of himself, of his anger. The dam was safely reinforced, the tears, the memories held at bay. He threw himself at Alistair, both sword and shield trying to get past the other warden's defences. Alistair didn't attack; however, he didn't give an inch. No matter how fiercely Fearghal battered at him, his shield, his sword were there to block and parry. Fearghal's anger grew, fuelled by frustration, then, gradually, it dissipated; chewed away at the edges by weariness. His swings were less precise, his blows with his shield had less power behind them. Yet still, Alistair didn't falter, didn't let his guard down.

Fearghal attacked once more, and once more he was rebuffed, pushed back. He paused, his chest heaving, gulping air into his burning lungs. His arms felt heavy; his sword and shield might have been made of lead. He regarded Alistair carefully; heard the rasping of his breath, saw him sway slightly.

"Call it a draw?" rasped Fearghal.

Alistair grunted and nodded. Fearghal was so exhausted, he almost staggered over to the weapon rack and stowed the practice sword away. Alistair appeared at his side and placed his own sword in the rack.

 _'It was just that Alistair... well, he looked like he didn't know whether to hit you or kiss you.'_ Zevran's words popped into Fearghal's mind. He found himself looking at Alistair with new eyes. When he'd told the assassin he wasn't his type, he'd meant it, but Alistair _was_ his type. He shook his head. Alistair had made it quite plain that he _'wasn't like that'_. The last thing he needed right now was a lover. _I have nothing left to give._ And yet...

"I reckon we'll both sleep now," mumbled Fearghal.

Alistair smiled and looked up at the sky. "It'll be light soon."

"Best get to it, then," chuckled Fearghal. He headed back into the castle. His legs ached as he climbed the stairs and he grinned as he heard Alistair huffing behind him.

"Good night, Alistair. And... thanks." Fearghal carried on down the corridor to his own room without a backward glance. Once inside his own room, he stripped off his armour and underclothes and sank gratefully into his bed, into oblivion.

~o~O~o~

The following morning, the courtyard was a hive of activity as the wardens and their group gathered their things.

Teagan beckoned Alistair and Fearghal to one side. "I'd intended to offer you the use of Eamon's estate in Denerim; however, I can't be certain it will be safe; Loghain may well be having it watched, too."

"We can camp outside the city, or take rooms at an Inn, if we need too," Fearghal assured him. Teagan had already given him a purse of money; affording rooms wouldn't be a problem.

"I have a small town house of my own. I think it would be too small to accommodate you all; however, feel free to make use of it if you need to," offered Teagan.

"Really, you've been more than generous already, Teagan." argued Fearghal. Indeed, Fearghal wore a set of good plate armour, Alistair had a new shield, almost as good as Fearghal's own, and Teagan had even arranged for the smith to do something about Sten's armour, which had fitted very badly, all in addition to the purse he had given Fearghal.

"Nonsense. It may not be safe for you to rent rooms. Anyway, here's the address; there's a spare key above the lintel inside the outhouse, round the back." Teagan slipped a small piece of paper to Fearghal, who looked at it, memorising the address, then tucked it into his pouch.

"Excuse me, My Lord." Ser Perth looked flushed and slightly embarrassed.

"Yes, Perth. Did you find a tent for the Warden?" Teagan turned to the knight, smiling.

"Um... not exactly, My Lord. There were some tents down in the store, but they are all damaged. I was sure there were some good ones down there but the only ones I can find have been down there so long they've gone mouldy or have been torn almost to shreds. The work of those foul creatures, I suppose."

Teagan turned to Fearghal, frowning. "I'm sorry, Fearghal. I'd hoped to be able to provide the one thing you _did_ ask for."

"Really, it's not important, Teagan," replied Fearghal, with a tight smile.

Fearghal headed over to the packs piled up in the courtyard and picked his out, slinging it across one shoulder. After a round of farewells, he led his party out of the castle and towards the road to Denerim.


	30. Chapter 30

It took a week to walk to Denerim. Their journey had been uneventful until they neared the Lothering road, then Fearghal had had his first experience of being able to sense darkspawn. The pricking along his skin had almost made his hair stand on end. Alistair had noticed his reaction and grinned at him, asking, "You feel it too?"

After encountering several more bands of the foul creatures, Fearghal was starting to grow used to the sensation. It had depressed him a little, yet another sign that he was truly a Grey Warden; there was no going back. He had tried not to take his morose mood out on his companions, even to the extent of making the effort to find out a little more about them. If nothing else, talking to them kept his own dark thoughts at bay and, in their own way, they had all given him something to think about.

The road became markedly busier as they neared Denerim. Mostly refugees, but a number of mercenary bands too; enough that the wardens and their companions didn't stand out. They found a suitable camp site and got their tents up quickly. It was late afternoon and Fearghal was keen to get into the city before the gates were locked for the night.

"Sten, Morrigan and Wynne, I want you to wait here. I'm going to take Alistair, Zev and Leliana into Denerim," Fearghal told them. Leliana looked surprised, but pleased to be included in Fearghal's party.

"The city gates will be locked soon, Fearghal. You won't have much time," protested Wynne.

Fearghal grinned. "We won't be back tonight. Teagan gave me the key to his town house." He dug the scrap of paper Teagan had given him out of his pouch and handed it to Wynne. "That's the address. I reckon on us staying one, maybe two nights. If you haven't heard from us after that, feel free to come and look for us."

Fearghal disappeared into the tent he shared with Alistair and reappeared with his pack. Alistair eyed it curiously. Fearghal grinned back at him. "Laundry. I intend to leave Denerim with clean clothes and blankets, if nothing else." Fearghal chuckled as Alistair, Leliana and Zevran all disappeared into tents, reappearing with packs bulging with dirty clothing and stale bedding.

It took them almost an hour to get into Denerim, finally making it through the gates just before they were locked for the night. The crush of refugees flooding into the city gradually dispersed as they got further from the gate. Fearghal looked around uncertainly, unsure which way to go.

"What's the address?" asked Alistair. Fearghal told him and was surprised when Alistair said, "This way," and set off down one of the side streets. He led them through a maze of small streets and lanes which eventually opened up into a broader street. The houses were a good size, but not overly large. Yellow light shone through the windows of most of the houses, but as they progressed down the street they came to a house that was completely dark.

"Teagan said there was a key on the lintel in the outhouse at the back," Fearghal told them.

"Wait here," muttered Zevran, slipping through the gate at the side of the house. Moments later he was back, grinning and brandishing a large iron key. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding the door wide for the others to follow him. Thankfully, there was a lamp on a ledge just inside the door and it only took a few seconds of fumbling with a flint to light it. The warm glow of the lamp revealed a generous lobby, with stairs rising to the upper floor. A passage on the left ran to the back of the house and, presumably, the kitchen; on their right a door led into a large room that ran almost the full length of the house. There were plenty of lamps; when lit the room was revealed as an all-purpose living room with easy chairs and a small settle at one end, with a table and chair down at the other. One long wall was lined with book shelves that rose from floor to ceiling.

Fearghal browsed the titles. "There are some books by Brother Genetivi here." He pulled out a book and leafed through the pages. Alistair picked out a book at random and opened it. At his startled squawk, the others looked over at him. He was gazing at the book, his eyes wide, blushing furiously.

Zevran sidled over to him and looked at the book, then grinned. "Hmmm, 'A Banquet of Chestnuts', and illustrated too."

"Ooooh," breathed Leliana. "I haven't seen a copy of that since I left Orlais! It is banned there too, of course, but is still widely available, if you know where to look."

"You've read this?" squeaked Alistair, his eyes almost popping out of his head as Zevran grabbed the book off him and turned the page. His eyes were drawn back to the book as Zevran turned the page again; he swivelled his head to one side, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. His eyebrows shot up as he started to mentally unravel the tangle of limbs and bodies. "Maker's breath! Is that even possible? How are they... ?"

Leliana peered over Zevran's shoulders. "Oh my! This is a beautiful copy. The illustrations are exquisite; so much detail."

Alistair gaped at her. Leliana gave him an arch look. "I wasn't always a chantry sister, Alistair."

Alistair grabbed the book back from Zevran and stuffed it back onto the bookshelf. "I'm going to see what's upstairs." He grabbed a lamp and stomped towards the door.

He flinched as he heard Zevran say, "My,my! One look at an erotic book and he's already checking out the sleeping arrangements. So keen!" Fearghal snorted with laughter and he heard Leliana murmur, "Zevran, don't be so wicked." It was impossible to ignore the hint of laughter in her voice, for all her words.

Feeling embarrassed and stupid, Alistair carried on up the stairs. He hesitated at the door to what appeared to be the master bedroom. It was obvious that he didn't know Teagan at all. Zevran had made that clear at Redcliffe Castle and his 'library' only confirmed it. Maker only knows what might be in his bedroom. Hearing the others at the bottom of the stairs, Alistair pushed the door open.

Alistair felt silly for feeling so relieved that Teagan's room looked so 'normal'. A large bed dominated the room; blankets and an eiderdown were folded neatly at the foot of the bare mattress. There was a washstand with a bowl and jug on it, and a solid-looking chest at the foot of the bed. He noticed that there were small side tables at each side of the bed.

Fearghal and Zevran opened the two other doors on the landing. Both appeared to be guest rooms. Zevran peered into the master bedroom and grinned at the sight of the large bed. "Three bedrooms, but there are four of us. Hmm, Leliana... I think you and I should take the large bed, yes?"

Leliana narrowed her eyes at him. "I think not, Zevran," she snapped, entering one of the guest rooms and closing the door firmly behind her.

Zevran pouted, then shrugged. "Ah, never mind. Which one of you gorgeous wardens wishes to share this bed with me?"

"What?" spluttered Alistair.

Fearghal grinned at him, then Zevran. "I think you should take the other room, Zevran. Alistair and I are used to sharing a tent, so we'll take this room."

Zevran sighed theatrically. "Such a waste of a quite splendid bed. Unless you two plan to... "

His words were cut off as Fearghal grasped his arm and thrust him into the second guest room and shut the door.

Alistair shook his head. "Does he ever stop?" he muttered, embarrassed by Zevran's innuendo. It was far too close to the truth for comfort. Sharing a tent, where usually one or the other of them was on watch anyway, was a different prospect to sharing a bed, big though it was. He considered suggesting he sleep downstairs on the sofa, but the others already thought him a prude. He didn't know if he could take their teasing.

Instead he turned and went back down the corridor, to the large cupboard at the end. As he hoped, it was full of linen. He picked out what he needed, then headed back to the large bed chamber and tossed the pile of linen to a bemused Fearghal. "You sort the bed out, I'll go and check out the kitchen. The fire'll need to be lit for hot water and so on." He turned without a backward glance and went downstairs to the kitchen. As he expected, there wasn't much food, mostly dry goods, but there was plenty of firewood and he soon had a decent fire going in the hearth. He arrived back in the bedroom and almost burst out laughing. Fearghal had managed to get the covers on the pillows and was wrestling with a large sheet, looking hot and flustered.

"I got a fire going in the kitchen. How are you doing with the bed?" asked Alistair, trying his hardest not to grin.

Fearghal scowled and tried to flick the sheet across the mattress; it didn't go far as he was standing on one corner. "Maker's cock! I swear this thing is alive!"

"Want a hand?" asked Alistair, as casually as he could.

Fearghal nodded and Alistair sauntered to the other side of the bed. "I thought you'd have had it done by now. A Grey Warden, defeated by a bed sheet. Disgraceful, really." Alistair held out his hand for the sheet and Fearghal almost threw it at him.

"They always made it look so easy!" groaned Fearghal.

"They?" asked Alistair, straightening the sheet then flicking it out across the mattress. "Oh... servants. I suppose it's different when you have staff to do this sort of thing for you," he said with a grin.

Fearghal glared at him, then looked slightly sheepish. "Oh, shut up!" he said, grabbing a pillow and throwing it Alistair.

"Hey! That's no way to treat the help!" protested Alistair, tossing the pillow back at Fearghal.

Fearghal swatted the pillow away and grasped the edge of the sheet, pulling it taut and stuffing it under the mattress. "You don't count as _help_ , you're not getting paid," he chuckled.

Alistair came round to Fearghal's side of the bed and shook his head, tutting. "You wouldn't be getting paid either." Fearghal was astonished when Alistair untucked the sheet. "Like this," he said, "You have to get the corners right, so it doesn't some undone."

Alistair performed a complicated manoeuvre with the corners of the sheet that Fearghal didn't quite follow. "See?"

Fearghal shook his head. "I didn't quite get what you did there. Show me again." He picked up the other sheet and handed it to Alistair.

Alistair unfolded the sheet and laid it across the bed, tucking it under the bottom of the mattress. "Watch," he instructed. "Lay this corner up here, tuck this bit in, then bring that bit back down and tuck it in too."

Fearghal frowned and shook his head. Alistair sighed and went to the other corner, Fearghal following him. He went through it again. "Do you see?"

Fearghal grinned. "I get it... but we seem to have run out of corners to tuck in."

Alistair's eyes went wide. "Why you sneaky... " He stopped and picked up the blankets from the top of the chest. "There's still these to do." He chucked the blankets at Fearghal. "Get to it, warden. If I don't cut myself on those corners, you'll be on pot duty!" he warned in a stern voice.

Trying not to drop the blankets, snorting with laughter, Fearghal managed a shaky salute. "Yes, ser!"

Fumbling, he got one of the blankets across the bed and tucked in, after a fashion.

"Maker's breath!" groaned Alistair, "I never saw anybody make such a dogs dinner of a bed before!"

"Look! You make the damned bed, I'll cook breakfast," offered Fearghal.

"Done!" agreed Alistair.

Alistair straightened the blankets, tucking them in neatly. He grinned slyly up at Fearghal. "You do realise that there's not a bite to eat in this house. You're going to have to be up very early tomorrow." He flopped on to the newly-made bed. "I think I'll have a lie-in... you'll have a lot to fetch. Let's see... bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, bread... ooof!"

Alistair didn't see the pillow coming. He grabbed it off his face and leaped up off the bed, brandishing it at Fearghal. "Oh, sparring again, eh? Arm yourself, ser. Fear the might of my pillow!"

As Fearghal reached for another pillow, Alistair swung his hard at Fearghal's head, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling across the bed. Alistair rained blows down on him, while Fearghal started to laugh. "I shall smite you with my feathers!" Alistair roared. Helpless with laughter, Fearghal raised his arms trying to fend off the pillow. Finally he managed to grab it, just as Alistair pulled it back to swing again. There was an almighty rip and feathers exploded all over the room.

"Oops," said Alistair. "I didn't mean to smite you that hard."

"Just what are you two doing?" demanded Leliana. She was standing in the doorway, arm folded, looking most disapproving.

"Er... nothing?" offered Alistair sheepishly, trying to hide the ruined pillow behind his back.

Leliana looked pointedly at the feathers wafting through the air. "Oh? I could have sworn there were two _boys_ in here having a pillow fight."

Fearghal hauled himself off the bed and looked around innocently. "Nope. Just us wardens in here, discussing... warden... things."

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "I see. Zevran suggested we go out to a tavern to eat. There's one in the Market Square, The Gnawed Noble; he says the food's good in there."

"I know it," said Alistair. "We'll just... er..." he waved a hand around at the feathers, "catch you up."

They listened to Leliana descending the stairs, her voice drifting back up through the open door. "Can you believe they were having a pillow fight? There are feathers everywhere. Wynne is right, they are like children. They cannot be left alone for five minutes... " There was a loud click as the door closed behind her.

Fearghal caught Alistair's eye and sniggered. "Come on, let's get this lot cleared up. I'm starving!"

They set to clearing up the feathers, stuffing them back into the torn pillow, which they took downstairs and put on the kitchen fire. They beat a hasty retreat as the feathers started to burn, the acrid stench making their eyes water.

Fearghal stopped Alistair as they made their way to the door. "You've got some feathers sticking out of the back of your armour."

Alistair twisted, trying to reach. Fearghal reached across and removed them, his fingers brushing against Alistair's neck as he did so. Alistair's heart started pounding at the touch; he prayed to the Maker that he wouldn't blush.

Fearghal turned round. "Just check I haven't got any... I'm sure I can feel something."

Alistair peered at the back of Fearghal's neck. There was a single, small, white feather that had worked its way down under the back of his shirt. With trembling fingers, he reached down and plucked it out. He cleared his throat. "Just the one... got it."

"Thanks," said Fearghal. "Let's go and find the others."


	31. Chapter 31

Fearghal lay on his back, in the dark. The soft sound of Alistair's steady breathing indicated his companion was asleep. Fearghal felt restless but didn't want to fidget, in case he disturbed Alistair. Instead, he steeled himself to stay still, the one thought whirling around in his head; the one that denied him sleep. _Did Teagan ever bring Rory here? Did he sleep in this bed?_ The yearning for Rory was so strong, it made Fearghal's jaw ache, clenched tightly against the sobs that threatened. He missed him so much, it was a physical pain.

Alistair stirred and Fearghal held his breath, until the even rhythm of Alistair's breathing resumed. It seemed the supreme irony to be sleeping in this bed with a man, yet feel so alone. Fearghal turned his head. In the dim light he could just make out the shape of Alistair, laying on his side with his back to Fearghal. He could feel the heat radiating from his fellow-warden, almost calling to him. Fearghal resisted the urge to huddle against that broad back, to press himself against it, to draw some comfort just from being that close to another body. In the dark, maybe he could pretend it was Rory.

Fearghal sighed and turned over, so that his back was to Alistair. _Rory's dead. Pretending someone else is him doesn't make it any less true._ He took a deep breath and attempted to clear his mind. He needed something to send himself to sleep. He smiled as he remembered struggling to stay awake memorizing all the names of the villages in Highever and who their reeves were. _Happy Days. Hampole... Thomas Wentworth; Pickburn... Ned Breckon; Stairfoot... Matthew Lockwood; Micklebring...Finn Caw; Skellow...Dickon Crum; Gillsland... Donal Lyall; Callaly... Cam Merrick; Rowfoot... Massey Bloom; Pegswood..._

~o~O~o~

Fearghal and Alistair headed back towards the market district; the barman in the Gnawed Noble had told them that Brother Genitivi lived just down the lane. Fearghal had decided that Zevran and Leliana should check out Teyrn Loghain's estate. While it was likely that, as regent, he had moved into the palace, it was possible that he'd left the antidote in his estate. Fearghal had reasoned that he might not want to move anything incriminating into the palace; plus, if the teyrn wasn't actually in residence, security might be lighter.

Alistair was surprised when they entered the market place and Fearghal beckoned an urchin over. He murmured to the boy, who turned and pointed at fat man loitering in a shady corner of the market square.

Fearghal flipped the boy a groat and turned back to Alistair. "I need to go and see a man about a dog. I won't be long. Wait here with the laundry, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Alistair watched Fearghal absently as he approached the fat man.

"Slim Couldry?" asked Fearghal softly.

"Depends on who's asking," said the man, eyeing Fearghal up and down.

"I'm a friend of Ned Bennet, the name's Fearghal," he murmured.

The fat man's eyes went wide and a broad grin split his face. He held his hand out. "It's good to see you, ser." Slim Couldry shook Fearghal's hand firmly, then his face clouded. "That was a right bad do up there, ser. I was right sorry to hear of it."

Fearghal nodded stiffly. "Thank you. Have you heard from Bennet?"

The fat man nodded and looked around to make sure they couldn't be overheard. He jerked his head at Alistair. "He's wi' you?" At Fearghal's nod, he continued. "You 'eard what they're sayin'? 'Bout your family, I mean."

A muscle twitched in Fearghal's jaw. "I heard they've been attainted."

"That bastard Howe... " Couldry paused to turn his head and spit, "Arl of Amaranthine, then Denerim and now Teyrn o' Highever and all. How many titles does one man need?"

"Loghain's made him teyrn?" Fearghal's face darkened.

"Right enough, he has. That bastard's swanning around Denerim like he owns the place... which I suppose 'e does now."

"So, what news from Bennet?" asked Fearghal, again, trying not to show his impatience.

"Him and a few mates are busy making life difficult for the new... incumbent. He also told me that Howe's moving silver bullion from Highever to Denerim. His pal, Loghain, 'aving _mislaid_ half his army at Ostagar, needs the funds to pay for a new 'un. That arse-licker's stripping Highever of anything that's not nailed down and sending the proceeds down 'ere."

Couldry looked across at Alistair, his face thoughtful. "He looks a right handy bloke, your mate. Got any more like 'im?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"Ever since our Ned sent me word o' that bullion, I've 'ad a few... friends keeping a close eye on what's coming into the city. I know where they're storing it, but they're shifting it all tomorrow. As it is, it's not heavily guarded; I reckon they're not wantin' to draw attention to it. There's only half a dozen guards or so but they're all hard bastards. I'd have 'ad a shot at lifting it myself but my lads aren't so hot on the strong arm stuff. I reckon the rumpus would have old Kylon down on us before we could get it away."

Fearghal stared at the fat man. "Are you suggesting that... I... we... "

Couldry flushed and held his hands up. "Sorry, my lord, I didn't mean no offense. I jus' thought... "

Fearghal grinned at him. "I think that's an excellent idea!"

"Oh!" Couldry sighed with relief and grinned back at him. "Well, if you can get in there quick and quiet like, I can 'ave a few lads waiting to help load the bullion onto a cart and we can have it away in no time at all."

"What happens then?" asked Fearghal .

Slim Couldry burst out laughing. "Then we scarper! You go back to wherever you're holed up and I set about off-loading the bullion. It'll take a while but I should be able to get a decent price for it. Daren't try to shift it all at once, is all."

"How much do you think you'll get for it?"

"Hard to say, without knowing exactly how much is in there. A few hundred sovereigns at least. Nowhere near what it's worth but not an amount to be sniffed at. There would be my cut an' all; I've men to pay, palms to grease."

Fearghal eyed him warily. "How much?"

"Twenty-five percent?" suggested Couldry, swallowing nervously.

It was less than Fearghal had expected. "Fair enough. Send half of what's left to Bennet and keep the rest back for me. I don't need it right away but will do in the future. Once we leave Denerim, we likely won't be back for a while. I'll be heading to Orzammar; Maker only knows how long that's going to take."

"I've got contacts in Orzammar, that's where most of the silver will likely end up anyway. I could give you a name, so's you could... draw on some funds while you're there."

"That sounds fine. So tonight. Where and when?"

"There's an alley runs down the side of the Gnawed Noble. Be there at ten. It'll be getting rowdy at that time and should cover any noise we might make."

Fearghal held out his hand. "We'll be there." Slim Couldry shook his hand and Fearghal turned and started to walk away. He stopped suddenly. "You don't where we could get some laundry done, do you?"

Couldry pointed to a dilapidated-looking house nearby. "Try Goldanna. She's a snippy piece but she won't rob you and she does a good job. Don't say I sent you though, she 'ates me!" He turned away, laughing.

"Thanks." Fearghal turned back to Alistair. "Come on, let's go and dump the laundry."

Alistair picked up two of the bundles of laundry, leaving the others for Fearghal. "What was all that about?"

"A friend of Bennet's... well, cousin, actually. I'll tell you more later, when we get back to the others." Fearghal led the way to the house Couldry had pointed out. "He said we could get this lot done here."

Fearghal knocked at the door and pushed the door open. "Gimme a minute!" yelled a voice.

Moments later, a thin, sharp-faced woman appeared. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing reddened, chapped hands and forearms. She looked hot and cross and smelled of soap.

"You're Goldanna?" asked Fearghal.

"I am. You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on the bundle, you won't find better." The woman's voice was sharp as her face and had a harsh note to it. "And don't trust what that Nalia woman tells you either, she's foreign and she'll rob you blind."

"We're only going to be in the city one more night. Would you be able to have these ready for tomorrow?" asked Fearghal.

Goldanna looked over the bundles. "Depends what's in 'em."

"Clothes mostly, and some blankets. Don't worry about getting the blood stains out," Fearghal told her cheerfully.

She stared at him, then nodded. "I can do 'em for tomorrow as long as you don't come by too early. Late mornin' do you?"

Fearghal gave her his most charming smile. "That would be fine, madam. And shall we say a groat per bundle, for such a prompt job?"

The woman looked startled. "Oh, that's very kind of you, ser." She picked up two of the bundles and disappeared into the back room.

Fearghal turned to the door, then realised that Alistair was staring after the woman, almost frozen to the spot. He nudged him sharply and hissed, "Alistair!"

Alistair came to with a start and followed him out of the door.

"Maker's breath, Alistair! She's just a woman, you've seen one before! Anyone would think I'd taken you to a whore house, not a wash house."

"Sorry," mumbled Alistair looking back at the house.

"Actually, talking of which... do you want to get it over and done with while we're in Denerim?"

Alistair stared blankly at Fearghal. "Eh?"

"A whore house. I just thought you might like to get shut of it, once and for all," replied Fearghal.

"Get shut of it? You mean... ?" squeaked Alistair.

"Yes," sighed Fearghal. "I mean, you don't have to, but carrying around all that virginity can be a heavy burden. All that fretting about when you're going to lose it and with who; will you be able to get it up or keep it up and, if you do, will you last longer than 10 seconds."

"What?" Alistair gazed in horror at Fearghal. "No!"

"Why not?" persisted Fearghal. "Much better to get the hang of the basics with a sympathetic whore, than save it for some woman you're mad for, who laughs you out of bed when you come all over her hand. We could go to The Pearl, find you a nice buxom wench... or a skinny one, if that's what you prefer." Fearghal stopped, frowning. _It surely can't be healthy for someone to go that colour._

"What part of 'no' was unclear?" spluttered Alistair. "I don't want to even discuss it with you!"

"Maker's breath, Alistair! It was only a suggestion. There's no need to be so uptight about it."

"Uptight?" yelped Alistair. "You're suggesting that I go to a brothel and climb into bed with some random woman that I don't even know and... and... "

"Forget I mentioned it," muttered Fearghal.

"Huh! I bet that's not what you did," grumbled Alistair.

"I did actually. Well, that was my first time with a woman. Fergus took me to The Pearl when I was fifteen. I was curious to see if I'd like it any better than... well, you know."

"Fifteen! Then how old were you when you... you lost it?" Alistair could hear the words tumbling out of his mouth, but didn't seem able to stop them.

"Thirteen," said Fearghal, casually. Seeing the look of shock on Alistair's face, he felt the need to qualify. "I was just a month off my fourteenth birthday. He was a travelling smith, he came to Highever to help out our regular smith."

Alistair watched Fearghal's eyes glaze over, a small smile on his face and couldn't resist asking, "What was he like?"

"He wasn't long out of his apprenticeship, so he must have only been eighteen or nineteen, but at thirteen he seemed so... grown up. He was massive... I was still a skinny squirt, all gangly legs and two left feet. They called him Bran. He had the blackest hair I ever saw" Fearghal sighed, then frowned. "I thought we were supposed to be talking about you losing your virginity, not how I lost mine."

"I'd rather not talk about mine at all," said Alistair dryly. They'd reached the corner of the lane Genitivi's house was on. "Let's go and see if the good brother is at home."


	32. Chapter 32

Fearghal wondered how Leliana and Zevran were getting on at Loghain's estate as he and Alistair approached the house that the barman at the inn had pointed out the previous evening. He raised his fist and hammered at the door.

An young man opened it, his face anxious. "Y-yes?"

"Brother Genitivi?" demanded Fearghal.

"Er... no. The way you'd hammered at the door, I was hoping that maybe you'd brought news of him?" The young man's eyes flicked away as Fearghal glared at him.

"We need to find him. Can you tell me where he is?"

"You'd better come in." The man opened the door wide, beckoning them inside.

Alistair and Fearghal followed him into the small house.

"I'm Weylon, Brother Genitivi's assistant." He looked at Alistair's shield. "You are from Redcliffe, sers?"

"Not exactly; however, we are here at the behest of Bann Teagan, the Arl of Redcliffe's brother," explained Fearghal .

"I've had no news of Genitivi in weeks; it's most unlike him." Weylon wrung his hands. "Several knights from Redcliffe have already been here looking for him. I sent them after him, but they too have disappeared."

"Where did you send them?" asked Alistair.

"Genitivi didn't tell me exactly where he was going, but his notes indicated there was something of interest at Kinloch Hold."

Fearghal frowned. "We were there less than a month ago and saw no sign of Genitivi or any knights from Redcliffe."

"S-something must have happened to them. I'm so worried, ser."

"Do you know what he was looking for there?" asked Fearghal.

"N-no, ser. All he told me was that he was going to Lake Calenhad; that he wanted to look up some old books in the library in the Mage's tower."

Fearghal stepped forward, scowling. "I thought you said he didn't tell you where he was going. You said you had to look in his notes."

Weylon stepped back, his eyes wide, then gestured at Fearghal. Fearghal staggered as his legs turned to jelly; he felt himself starting to fall.

"He's a mage!" yelled Alistair and released a flash of energy that sent Weylon staggering backwards. Alistair drew his sword and ran the man through. The man slid off Alistair's sword and was dead before he hit the floor.

Alistair helped Fearghal to his feet. "Are you all right?"

Fearghal felt his strength returning. "I-I think so. Thanks." He looked down at the corpse on the floor. "A mage seems an odd assistant for a chantry scholar. Let's have a look around."

Fearghal started ferreting through the large bookcase while Alistair went into the back room.

Moments later Fearghal heard Alistair call, "Er, Fearghal. I think I've found the real Weylon."

Fearghal hurried into the back room, Genitivi's bed chamber, and found Alistair crouching over a corpse which had been rolled up in a rug.

"There's not a mark on him," observed Fearghal.

Alistair shrugged. "Depending on how the mage killed him, there wouldn't be. Poor sod." He straightened. "Why would anyone kill Genitivi's assistant?"

"Loghain maybe? We know he's already sent one apostate to Redcliffe to poison the arl. Maybe when he heard that Isolde was sending knights out searching for the urn, he wanted to make sure they never found it. What's the betting that Genitivi's nowhere near Lake Calenhad?"

Together they started searching through the room. Fearghal found a bundle of papers stuffed into a corner of a chest. His eyes widened as he realised they were a set of rough notes, bound up in a map.

Fearghal unfolded the map, laying it on the chest, and studied. "Look at this. I think this is where he's heading."

"Haven? I've never heard of it," said Alistair, peering over his shoulder.

"It looks to be in the Frostbacks. We'll need cold weather gear, it'll be winter soon. We'll need it for the trip to Orzammar anyway, so we might as well get it while we're here."

Fearghal folded up the map, gathered up the other papers and tucked them into his breastplate. "Let's go to the Noble. We can get something to eat and have a read through these notes, then head back to Teagan's house and wait for Zev and Leliana."

~o~O~o~

Fearghal looked round at the others seated around the small table. "I think that tomorrow, we'll go back to the camp and fetch the others. We'll all need to get extra gear if we're heading into the Frostbacks. Winter's almost here and it's going to get a lot colder. I'd like to be in and out of Haven before the weather gets too bad."

"Why not make a start now?" asked Leliana.

"Because we have other plans to discuss," Fearghal explained with a grin.

Briefly he recapped his conversation with Slim Couldry.

"You're planning a robbery?" exclaimed Alistair.

"I'd rather think of it as reclaiming what's rightfully mine, as well as putting a spoke in the wheels of Loghain's plans," retorted Fearghal.

"And what are we supposed to do with a haul of silver bullion? We can't exactly carry it around with us?" demanded Alistair.

"Couldry will see to that. He reckons it should fetch several hundreds of sovereigns. Even after his cut, there will be plenty."

Alistair scowled. "I still don't like it. We're Grey Wardens, not thieves."

"Firstly, by all accounts Howe is bleeding Highever white to get that bullion. Secondly, we need funds; Teagan was generous, but what he gave us isn't going to last forever. We have no idea how long it's going to take us to gather an army to fight the Archdemon. Thirdly, most of what Couldry gets will be sent back to Bennet at Highever. I don't suppose that Howe is doling out widows pensions to those whose husbands died at Highever or Ostagar. Finally, it makes things more difficult for Loghain, which can't be a bad thing." Fearghal glared at Alistair.

"Well, when you put it like that... " conceded Alistair.

Fearghal looked at Leliana and Zevran. "What did you find at Loghain's estate?"

"It's all closed up. That probably means there's hardly anyone inside, but it was difficult to tell. There are regular patrols of guards around the walls, which are high with spikes on the top," Zevran told him.

"It sounds like getting over the wall would be our biggest problem," mused Fearghal.

"There was one section, near the gate, that wasn't in very good repair. Some of the spikes are missing, but it's not a good place to try and get over, being so close to the road," said Leliana.

"Then again, if we went in the early hours of the morning, there's unlikely to be any passers by," argued Zevran.

Alistair shook his head. "I don't like it. It seems an unnecessary risk. If it goes wrong we'll be dead or in Fort Drakon. We have a good idea where Genitivi was heading. There's no guarantee that the antidote is in Loghain's estate, if he hasn't destroyed it already."

Alistair was surprised when Fearghal didn't argue.

"Fair enough, you're probably right. We've enough on with relieving Howe of his stolen bullion tonight. Maybe we should quit while we're ahead."

Alistair stood. "I'd better go and wash those pots from breakfast."

Leliana followed him. "I'll help. It doesn't seem fair for you to have to do them all."

Fearghal waited until he heard their footsteps receding down the corridor, then he leaned close to Zevran. "Do you think that just you and I could get into Loghain's estate?"

"I suppose so, but I think we would do better with Leliana with us, at least."

Fearghal shook his head. "If we all disappear without Alistair, he's going to get suspicious."

Fearghal thought for a moment, then asked, "Can you get to the camp and back before the city gates close?"

"I think so. You have a plan?"

Fearghal grinned. "I want you to go back and get that old set of splint of mine. Take it to the Pearl, book a room for the night and leave it there. After we've got the bullion, we can go there and I'll change into it. It'll be much better for scrambling over walls in."

"What about Alistair?" asked Zevran.

"If we tell him we're going to the Pearl, he'll run back here so fast, we won't see his arse for dust," chuckled Fearghal.

Zevran frowned. "I still think it would be better if Leliana... "

"No, Zev. Alistair will know that we're up to something if we take her." He paused. "Look, if you think that the two of us can't do this, then say so and I'll drop it."

"No, we can do it." Zevran held his hand out. "I'll need some money. Rooms at the Pearl don't come cheap, even without whores."

Fearghal dropped a few sovereigns into his hand and Zevran headed to the door. "Zev, no dallying at the Pearl. Straight there and straight back." He chuckled as Zevran's face fell.

~o~O~o~

Slim Couldry was waiting for them in the alley behind the Gnawed Noble.

Fearghal looked around. "I thought some of your men were going to be here, to get the bullion away."

"Once you get in the warehouse, there's another door at the back. My men have a horse and cart in the other alley. I didn't want to have to bring it through the market at night. Old Kylon would be full of questions."

Fearghal nodded. "Wait out here. We'll come and get you once we've subdued them."

Couldry nodded and headed back down the alley, to keep look out. Leliana watched him go, then drew her lockpicks out and set to work on the door. Moments later she stepped back and Zevran took her place at the door, holding the small grenades he'd spent the afternoon making.

"Stand back and look away," he warned, then opened the door and stepped inside. He threw one bomb to the far end of the room and stepped out again quickly, throwing the second behind him. He dodged to the side of the doorway, briefly closing his eyes against the blinding flashed of light.

As soon as the second grenade flashed, Fearghal charged through the door and down to the far end of the room. Four guards stood there, dazed and blinking. Zevran followed him, while Alistair charged the two guards near the door. Virtually blinded, the guards stood no chance. Only one of them even managed to draw a weapon; Zevran never gave him a chance to use it.

"Was it necessary to kill them? Couldn't we have tied them up or something?" Alistair's face was troubled as he looked from the two corpses to Fearghal.

Fearghal scowled at him. "They're Howe's men. They'd kill me as soon as look at me. Go and get Couldry." He turned away and walked through to the back of the warehouse. Opening the back door, he looked out warily. Moments later Couldry joined him and beckoned. A horse and cart loomed out of the black night, its hooves bound with sacks to dampen any noise. Four men jumped down off the cart and followed Couldry into the warehouse.

Fearghal and Alistair helped to load the heavy crates onto the cart. Even with six of them working, it took a good twenty minutes to move all the bullion. Once it was all loaded onto the cart, the men covered it with a tarpaulin then disappeared into the darkness. Slim Couldry handed Fearghal a purse that was heavy with coin.

"A little something on account, ser," He murmured, smiling. "When you get up to Orzammar, ask for Modolf. You should be able to find him at the surfacers market."

Fearghal nodded and held out his hand. "Thank you, Couldry. Send my regards to Bennet."

"That I will, ser," grinned Couldry, grasping Fearghal's arm. He turned and climbed up on to the cart, grunting.

"Hmmmm, that's a heavy-looking purse, Warden. Maybe we should go and celebrate our success?" suggested Zevran.

Fearghal chuckled. "How about a trip to the Pearl?"

"That sounds like a fine idea! Alistair, Leliana, will you join us?"

"I'll pass, thanks," said Alistair tersely.

Zevran made a small noise of disappointment and turned to Leliana. She smiled at him. "Not for me, Zevran."

Fearghal tipped some of the coins from the purse and pocketed them, then handed it to Alistair with a broad grin. "It doesn't seem like a good idea to take that much to a brothel, we might never leave."

Alistair flushed and snatched the purse from him, then stalked off down the alley.

"You are both very naughty," chided Leliana, although the twinkle in her eye belied her words. As she followed Alistair down the alley, Zevran called after them, "Don't wait up!" They heard Alistair muttering and both burst out laughing.


	33. Chapter 33

Zevran and Fearghal made their way out of the alley and set off for the Pearl, still grinning at Alistair's reaction. It didn't take long to get there, as it lay between the market district and the docks. Zevran led the way to the room he'd reserved and helped Fearghal out of the heavy plate armour. Ignoring Zevran's admiring glances, Fearghal quickly donned the old splint mail that Zevran had brought to the room earlier. The bouncers on the door did a double-take when the pair re-emerged from the brothel so quickly, but they'd seen stranger things and didn't remark on it.

It took longer to get to the Teyrn of Gwaren's estate. Neither Fearghal nor Zevran knew the back streets of Denerim well, and they were forced to stick to the larger roads until they reached the affluent part of Denerim.

"I know my way from here," murmured Fearghal, leading them down a side street. There were few people about and both men felt exposed and conspicuous. They emerged onto a broad avenue, opposite the gate to the Gwaren estate. The gates were firmly shut. A light shone from the small gatehouse.

"The wall, it is broken over there, see?" whispered Zevran, pointing. The night was so dark, it was impossible for Fearghal to see the where Zevran indicated.

"I'll take your word for it, I don't have your night vision," said Fearghal with a shrug and followed him as quietly as he could, flinching at every jingle of his armour.

Finally they stood against the wall to the estate, looking up. The gate was near enough to make Fearghal nervous, but the lamplight from the gatehouse clearly showed the two guards engrossed in a game of cards.

Fearghal tipped his head back. "How do we get over? It's at least ten feet high?" he whispered.

Zevran knelt on one knee facing Fearghal. "Stand on my shoulders. When I stand, you should be able to pull yourself up."

Fearghal regarded the slim elf doubtfully. "Are you sure you can take my weight?"

"I am stronger than I look," replied Zevran with a sly grin.

Praying that Zevran wouldn't drop him, Fearghal clambered up onto Zevran's shoulders. He heard Zevran grunt, then he started to rise. Fearghal's heart lurched as he felt the elf stagger slightly, then he had hold of the top of the wall and pulled himself on to it. Fearghal straddled the wall, then leaned down and stretched out his hand. With a run and a jump, Zevran grasped Fearghal's wrist and the big warrior pulled him up. They took a moment on top of the wall to make sure there was no-one nearby and then lowered themselves down the other side.

Crouching low, they swiftly crossed the grounds to the large mansion. As they progressed around the house, Zevran checked windows. Finally he found one that rattled slightly and grinned, white teeth flashing in the dim moonlight. He drew a small dagger from his boot and inserted it between the window and the frame, flipping the loose catch open. Quickly, both men climbed inside and Zevran pulled the window shut behind them. They appeared to be in a storeroom. It smelled slightly musty and crates were piled up against the walls.

"Wait here, my friend. I will go and have a look around. I'll be back in a few minutes."

The minutes ticked by and Fearghal became more impatient as they passed. Impatience gave way to anxiety. _What if he's been discovered?_ Fearghal hadn't heard the alarm being raised, but it was a large house and the walls were thick. His hand went to his sword as the door opened, then he heaved a sigh of relief as Zevran slipped inside.

"Maker's breath, Zev! What took you so long?" hissed Fearghal.

The elf shrugged and grinned. "I was not gone so long. Did you miss me?" At Fearghal's scowl, he became serious. "Really, it was only ten minutes. I forget, you are not used to this. Anyway, I have found the teyrn's office. As far as I can tell, what few staff have been retained are abed. Come." Zevran beckoned and slipped back out of the door.

Fearghal followed the elf as quietly as he could. Zevran led him down a side passage, then another. The house was old and full of twists and turns; it reminded Fearghal a little of Castle Cousland. Fearghal was grateful he wasn't here alone, he wasn't sure he'd ever find his way out.

Zevran opened a door and Fearghal found himself inside a large office. The room was pitch black and Fearghal didn't dare move as he closed the door behind him.

"Wait," murmured Zevran. Fearghal heard soft scuffling, then one of the heavy shutters at the window drew back, admitting pale moonlight. As his eyes adjusted Fearghal could see a solid-looking desk in front of the window. He crossed the room and watched as Zevran tried the drawers, which were locked.

Fearghal grew more and more nervous as Zevran drew out a set of lockpicks and inserted them into the keyhole of the top drawer. The assassin jiggled the lockpick, which suddenly snapped; he swore softly in Antivan.

"Come on, Zev," hissed Fearghal.

The assassin looked sheepish. "You remember our conversation... after the ambush?"

"What about it?"

"I may have... exaggerated slightly. About my skill with picking locks, anyway. I really _do_ know twelve massage techniques."

"Maker's cock, Zevran! You wait until now to tell me?" burst out Fearghal. "This is why you wanted Leliana along, isn't it?"

"Ssssh!" Zevran waved frantically at Fearghal, trying to get him to lower his voice. "She has been giving me instruction, but as you can see, I'm not as good as she is yet."

Fearghal said nothing, but drew his sword and jammed it into the top of the drawer, forcing it open. He did the same with the other two drawers. Zevran winced at the noise, but unless this was to be a completely wasted trip, it was the only thing to do. Fearghal rifled through the drawers, pulling out papers and piles of letters and setting them on the desk.

"There's no vial here," he said glumly. He sifted through the papers. Recognising the hand writing on some of the letters, he tucked them into his armour. "These are from Howe," he explained, seeing Zevran's curious look.

"Let's get out of here," said Zevran. He went to the window to close the shutter and was startled to see a face peering in at them. A wide-eyed guard stared at him for an instant, then shouted in alarm and set off running, heading for the door.

"Shit!" Fearghal looked out of the window and spied a tree growing near the wall. "Do you think we can get over the wall there?" he asked Zevran.

Zevran scanned the grounds quickly and nodded. "As long as we're careful and don't slip onto a spike."

Fearghal flung open the other shutter. "Stand back." He drew his shield and raised it high, in front of his face, then charged at the window, punching the shield through it with a tremendous crash. He smashed bits of broken wood out of the way, slung his shield on his back again and jumped out of the window.

Together, they raced towards the tree. Fearghal cupped his hands and gave Zevran a leg up, then jumped and grabbed a branch and pulled himself up. As quickly as they dared, they climbed the tree, then made their way along a branch that almost touched the wall. Zevran stepped across onto the wall, between two wickedly sharp spikes, then jumped down onto the road. There was a loud crack as Fearghal started to step across. He lurched slightly as the branch gave way, grasping a spike to keep his balance. His heart hammering beneath his armour, he jumped down to where Zev waited.

At the sound of a yell they looked down the road to see several guards erupting from the gate to the teyrn's estate.

Fearghal grabbed Zevran's arm. "This way!" He set off running down the broad pavement, dragging the elf after him. He turned into a side street, then another and another. He ran as fast as he could, fear lending him an extra burst of speed. Zevran was bewildered as Fearghal led the way down an dark alley, along a high wall. Clouds blew across sky, obscuring what little moonlight there was. Fearghal slowed slightly, running his hand along the wall. Abruptly he disappeared, pulling Zevran after him. He pulled him into an L-shaped niche in the wall, holding him tight against his side. Fearghal struggled to quiet his noisy breathing as he heard loud footsteps running along the alley.

"They turned in 'ere, I swear!"

"Well they ain't 'ere now. I's a dead end. They can't 'ave come down 'ere," said a second voice with obvious disgust.

"But I saw them!"

"What? They jus' walked through the fucking wall? You useless tosser. They'll be long gone by now." The voice faded as the footsteps receded back up the alley.

Fearghal slumped against the door that was behind him. He had a wild desire to laugh.

Zevran stirred and Fearghal loosened his grip. "What is this place?"

"It's my family's estate... or, it was. I remember hiding from Fergus here when I was a boy. There's a door there, into the grounds."

Fearghal sighed, his elation at their escape fading. He flinched as a warm hand cupped his face.

"You are not to be sad, my Warden. Not tonight. We have escaped Loghain's guards, yes?"

In spite of himself, he leaned into the contact. It felt like an eternity since someone had touched him. His arm tightened around Zevran again. "Zevran... Zev... I... "

"I know; I am not your type, Warden." The assassin's voice held a hint of amusement.

Fearghal pulled Zevran against him, wrapping his arms tightly around the elf; he felt strange in his arms, too small. _But strong._ Fearghal lowered his head, feeling silky hair under his cheek. The hair moved against his face then a pair of warm lips brushed against his. Fearghal's heart hammered in his chest as a wave of longing swept through him. Ignoring that voice in the back of his head that was telling that this was a _really bad idea_ , Fearghal dipped his head and explored Zevran's mouth, revelling in the sensation of the warm, pliant lips under his own.

Fearghal felt Zevran pull away slightly.

"There is a perfectly good room at the Pearl going to waste. Maybe we should... use it?" suggested Zevran, his voice husky.

"Let's go," said Fearghal gruffly. Zevran looked up and down the alley before he stepped out from the niche. Not speaking, they hurried back towards the Market district. As they reached it Fearghal swore softly; there were guards everywhere.

"I would guess that the Arl has discovered his bullion has been stolen," said Zevran dryly.

"Let's just go back to Teagan's," suggested Fearghal, anxious to avoid the guards. Zevran nodded and they turned round, heading back to Teagan's house, each trying to look as if they weren't hurrying.

When they arrived back at Teagan's house, it was in darkness except for a small lamp burning in the lobby. Fearghal shut the door quietly and turned the key in the lock, wincing at the loud click. He removed his shield and set it down, then pulled his gauntlets off and dropped them on top of it. Fearghal turned to see Zevran watching him carefully.

Fearghal reached for him, drawing him close. "You really aren't my type, you know..." He felt Zevran press against him, and dipped his head, drawing his tongue along the edge of a delicate ear, nibbling gently at the pointed tip. A thrill ran through him as Zevran shuddered, his breath hitching.

"I just need to... to touch...to feel... to feel alive. You understand?" murmured Fearghal, stumbling over the words.

Zevran leaned back and looked up at Fearghal, nodding. "I understand. This is... just a moment." He grinned. "I have always been a man to seize the moment." Zevran reached up, grasping the back of Fearghal's head, pulling him down into a slow, languid kiss. Fearghal gave himself up to the kiss, felt the lips under his mouth part. A tongue flicked against his own and his hunger grew.

"You're back then. Hey, where's your armour? What... oh!"

Fearghal ignored the voice, the retreating footsteps along the landing, the door slamming. Instead he focussed his attention on the man in his arms, pressing Zevran tightly against him, revelling in the sensation of just being close to someone again. Fearghal growled in frustration at the two layers of armour that separated him from the man in his arms. He wanted to _feel_ him, feel the heat of his body, feel skin under his hands. Reluctantly, Fearghal dragged his head back.

"I think we need some privacy," he rasped hoarsely, releasing his grip on Zevran.

The elf nodded and grabbed the lamp, ascending the stairs quietly. Fearghal followed, unable to resist running a hand up the tanned thigh ahead of him.

Zevran paused on the landing. "Such a shame that the biggest bed in the house is already occupied."

A shadow passed over Fearghal's face. "I'd rather not sleep in that bed."

"While not so large, mine is big enough for two," purred Zevran opening to door to his room. He crossed the room and set the lamp down on the small table by the bed.

Fearghal followed Zevran into his room and closed the door quietly behind him. With trembling fingers he tugged at the straps on his armour. He sat on the bed and pulled his boots and socks off, trying to steady his breathing. Fearghal swiftly removed his armour, throwing it carelessly on to the floor. His mouth went dry when he turned to watch Zevran, who was removing his armour more slowly, the movements deliberate and graceful. Piece by piece the elf the elf removed his leather armour, watching Fearghal's eyes darken, until he was clad in only a thin linen shirt and a scanty pair of _braies_. Not taking his eyes off the elf, Fearghal stood and pulled his shirt over his head.

Zevran moved to do the same, but Fearghal reached out and stopped him. He pulled the elf close and tugged the shirt down, exposing a golden shoulder. Fearghal leaned down, dropping kisses along the exposed shoulder, along Zevran's collar bone, savouring the smooth skin with his lips and tongue. His lips came to rest against the pulse beating in Zevran's neck, teeth nipping gently, lips smiling against the skin as he felt the assassin's pulse rate increase under his mouth.

Moving on, his lips whispered along the elf's jaw until he found the soft mouth. Shuddering, struggling to restrain the impulse to plunder and ravage, Fearghal kissed Zevran deeply as his hands started to roam under the assassin's shirt. Fearghal groaned with longing as he felt hands brush lightly over his back, then down over his backside, squeezing and kneading, gently at first, then increasingly insistent.

Breaking the kiss, Fearghal grasped Zevran's shirt and tugged it upwards. The elf released him only to lift his arms, then Fearghal flung the shirt to one side and crushed Zevran against him. His hands roamed over the golden skin, feeling the lithe muscles underneath move as the assassin explored him in similar fashion. Zevran felt as slender as any woman, but there was nothing soft about him. Under warm, smooth skin, Fearghal could feel the compact, corded muscle.

Fearghal felt the tension leeching out of him and almost sagged against Zevran. Memories, dark thoughts, all fled as he bathed in the golden skin against him, awash in the sensation of touching and being touched. He breathed in the musky, slightly spicy aroma of the strong body pressed against him. Fearghal gasped as fingers tugged at the laces on his breeches and quested inside. He groaned again as he felt a hand enclose him, stroking firmly. His legs trembled as a wave of desire blazed through his veins, like fire.

Fearghal tore his hands reluctantly from silken skin to push his breeches and _braies_ down, then tugged at Zevran's underwear, grasping the hardened flesh within. Zevran moaned loudly as Fearghal's callused hand encircled him and started to move. Zevran edged towards the bed, bringing Fearghal after him. He sank gratefully on to it and Fearghal almost collapsed at his side.

Fearghal leaned over Zevran, kissing him deeply, then explored the assassin's body with his mouth. Sucking, biting, kissing. He followed the path marked out by the tattoos that swirled down Zevran's body. He heard Zevran gasp and moan, felt his body writhing under his mouth, his hands. His senses narrowed until he was only aware of hard muscles playing under skin; gasps and moans rang in his ears as he tasted and caressed the body moving beneath him. He felt Zevran shift, his body twisting as he fumbled with something on the bedside table, then a vial was pressed into his hand.

Fearghal twisted the lid and drizzled the light oil onto his fingers, then passed the vial back to Zevran. Shifting down the bed slightly, he bent his head and nuzzled the elf's cock. He felt Zevran's hips lift and slipped an oiled finger inside him as he took the elf in his mouth. A stream of husky Antivan flowed from the elf's lips as Fearghal's mouth and finger sent jolts of pleasure through him. Fearghal felt a burst of gratification at Zevran's enthusiastic response.

Fearghal raised his head. "Are you ready?" he asked hoarsely. Zevran nodded and Fearghal held out his hand for the vial.

Zevran grinned at him. "Allow me," he offered. He twisted the cap off the vial and poured into his palm, then set it aside and reached down, his oiled palm stroking Fearghal, coating him in oil. Fearghal groaned and tensed at Zevran's touch. Zevran released him and leaned back.

Fearghal knelt between his legs and grasped his hips, pulling him lower down the bed. Zevran drew his knees up and clasped them, then moaned as Fearghal entered him. Fearghal groaned loudly as he penetrated the elf. "Oh, sweet Andraste!" He held himself still until he felt the elf relax underneath him, then he started to move slowly. Each stroke drew loud, shuddering groans from both men. Fearghal kept the pace slow, savouring the ecstasy that flooded through him as he drew back slowly, then thrust forwards. He grasped Zevran's ankles and rested them on his broad shoulders, running his hands up and down the golden thighs.

A meaningless babble of Antivan streamed from the assassin's mouth punctuated with a loud moan every time Fearghal thrust into him. Fearghal groaned as he felt Zevran tighten around him, pushing against him, urging him to go faster. Gradually Fearghal picked up the pace, his hand encircling the elf's cock as the elf's moans of pleasure implored him to go faster, harder. Fearghal could no longer tell where he ended and Zevran began; which moans fell from his mouth and which were the elf's.

All his reserve gone, Fearghal pounded into Zevran's body, until he felt him stiffen and cry out, milky liquid pumping over his belly. As the elf convulsed around him, Fearghal gave himself up to his own orgasm and, almost shouting, buried his face against Zevran's neck, pulsing deep inside him. As the waves of his pleasure receded, Fearghal pulled back, then sank down onto the bed trembling.


	34. Chapter 34

Alistair stiffened, listening. He had been restless and unable to settle since Fearghal and Zevran had left them to go to the Pearl. A part of him had wanted to go with them. For all his indignation at Fearghal's suggestion, the idea had taken hold in his mind. A soft thud came from downstairs, followed by a murmur of voices, then all was quiet. _It might be robbers._ Alistair had felt extremely uneasy about leaving the door unlocked. He would rather have been woken by Fearghal and Zevran knocking when they returned, but Leliana had been adamant that she wanted to sleep undisturbed in a good bed for what might be the last time in weeks or even months.

Alistair slipped out of bed and pulled his breeches on. He padded across the room, then along the landing and peered cautiously down the stairs.

"You're back then. Hey, where's your armour? What... oh!"

Alistair turned and fled back along the landing, into Teagan's bed chamber. He shut the door behind him and stood in the dark, shaken. _He was_ kissing _him!_ Alistair tried to make some sense of what he'd just seen. Fearghal and Zevran had seemed completely oblivious to him. It wasn't just a kiss but a _kiss_. Fearghal had had Zevran clasped tightly to him, the assassin's hands had been running through Fearghal's hair.

Alistair felt a stab of jealousy, swiftly followed by irritation. _Maker's breath, they've just spent the last few hours at a brothel and now they come back here to... to..._ He stripped off his breeches and got back into bed. He tensed, hearing soft footfalls on the stairs followed by a murmur of voices, too indistinct to make out the words; the muted click of a door closing. Alistair waited for Fearghal to enter Teagan's room, then realised that he must have gone into Zevran's room. Alistair felt unexpectedly bereft at the thought. He thumped his pillow and tried to get comfortable.

Alistair frowned in the dark. _Where's Fearghal's armour? He's been wearing the new plate that Teagan gave him..._ A loud groan interrupted his thoughts. Alistair felt a shiver run through him at the sound. _Fearghal._ Alistair pushed away the thoughts that threatened to crowd in. Another groan. In spite of his resolve to not even think about what might be happening in the next room, Alistair felt the familiar ache in his loins.

More moans, the pitch higher. _Zevran._ The creak of a bed, then Alistair could hear the elf moaning softly again. It went quiet, for a moment, for which Alistair was grateful, then Zevran moaned even more loudly and Alistair could hear the Antivan babbling and gasping. _Maker's breath! What is Fearghal doing to him?_ The thought was in his head before he could stop it, and his hand moved down under his small clothes.

Alistair heard Fearghal groaning again, softly at first, then more loudly. Alistair started to stroke himself. Zevran started to babble and moan again, punctuated by Fearghal's groans. Alistair's hand tightened on himself as he heard the rhythmic creaking of Zevran's bed. _Oh, Maker! They're..._ He remembered crude conversations amongst the other initiates, things that Alistair hadn't believed were possible at first. His fist moved faster as an image of pounding into Fearghal flashed through his mind, then he was coming hard, his breath ragged, as he felt warm liquid spray over his belly. Moments later he heard Zevran cry out, then Fearghal groaning loudly.

Alistair lay, trembling. _He really is going to drive me mad._

~o~O~o~

Alistair slipped out of bed and pulled the curtain back slightly. Judging by the light, it was still early. He stretched and pondered going back to bed for an hour. The house was still quiet, no-one else seemed to be up. He yawned and stretched. _I'm up now, might as well go and heat some water and get washed._ He pulled on his shirt and breeches and made his way quietly downstairs. As he reached the lobby, he glanced into the living room and was surprised to see Fearghal.

Fearghal was slumped in the chair, fast asleep, a small frown creasing his face. His shirt hung loosely, as if he'd just thrown it on and come down. A small pile of papers was on the floor at his feet. Unable to resist, Alistair crept in and picked up the papers. His eyes widened as he registered the greeting on the letter. Frowning, he sat in a chair and started to read.

~o~O~o~

 _1 Drakonis 9:30_

 _Greetings, My Lord Teyrn_

 _I pray you will not think it inappropriate for me to contact you. In ordinary circumstances I would address my concerns to my liege lord, the Teyrn of Highever; however, for reasons that I will explain, I am loathe to do so._

 _Enclosed is a message that was intercepted by one of my men. The messenger was behaving in a suspicious and surreptitious manner in Amaranthine and was detained. The Captain of the Guard confiscated all the prisoner's belongings and found this message concealed amongst his luggage. He opened it and read it, then brought it to me._

 _You understand, I would not have opened the message myself, given whom it is addressed to; however, it was brought to me already opened and I confess that the contents greatly disturbed me._

 _I realise that I should have brought it to the attention of Teyrn Cousland, however there has been much disquieting talk in recent months about the extent of his relations with Orlais, particularly in regard to the new trading agreements he reached with them late last year. I confess, I was much alarmed to discover that the prisoner had entered Ferelden through the port at Highever. Indeed, Orlesian ships are now frequent visitors in our most northern port._

 _I hope you will forgive my breach of protocol and not think me too forward in drawing this matter to your attention._

 _Your humble and obedient servant,_

 _Rendon Howe_

 _Arl of Amaranthine_

~o~O~o~

 _27 Cloudreach 9:30_

 _Greetings, My Lord Teyrn_

 _As you suggested, I have established a small band of men posing as merchants in Highever. They have identified an Orlesian trader there, who they believe to be an Orlesian spy, possibly even a bard. The woman's movements are sometimes furtive and her associates are not all connected with her purported trade. They continue to watch her closely. It may be necessary to arrest her and question her._

 _I will, of course, continue to keep you abreast of the situation as it develops._

 _Your humble and obedient servant,_

 _Rendon Howe_

 _Arl of Amaranthine_

~o~O~o~

 _3 August 9:30_

 _Greetings, My Lord Teyrn_

 _The Orlesian woman has been most forthcoming after a little persuasive interrogation. I had wondered if she was a bard, however she gave up her secrets so easily, I very much doubt it. She is truly is contemptible creature. She was babbling like a brook at the mere sight of her 'accommodations'. Still, I suppose one can expect nothing more of an Orlesian, and of the lower classes at that._

 _She was able to confirm that regular correspondence has passed between the parties we suspected, and has been doing so for almost a year. She also maintained that the trade agreements between the Teyrn of Highever and Orlais were established to facilitate said correspondence more easily._

 _I hesitate to state it so baldly, but I fear the conclusion must be that Cousland is a traitor. I will be arriving in Denerim to discuss the details of the mustering of troops called for by the king. I hope that we will have the opportunity to meet privately and discuss these issues more openly than I dare in a letter._

 _I remain your humble and obedient servant,_

 _Rendon Howe_

 _Arl of Amaranthine_

~o~O~o~

Alistair whistled softly as he reached the end of the last letter, then jumped as Fearghal stirred in his chair. He looked up and met the deep blue eyes staring back at him.

"It's not true, my father would never have betrayed Ferelden to Orlais," said Fearghal quietly.

"Is it possible, though, that Howe genuinely believed he _was_ a traitor?" asked Alistair.

Fearghal sighed and leaned forward, rubbing his face. "I don't know. It's possible, I suppose." He thought about it, then frowned. "But if that was the case, then why not just arrest Father, like he claims he went to Highever to do?"

Fearghal looked up as Leliana came down the stairs, then back at Alistair. "I'm no good at all this skulduggery and politicking!" Fearghal burst out.

Zevran came down and both he and Leliana came into the living room.

"Ah, this is where you got to," said Zevran, smiling. "Those are the letters we found last night?"

Fearghal nodded gloomily.

"May we see?" asked Zevran. Fearghal tugged the letters out of Alistair's hand and passed them to Zevran, who sat down on the settle with Leliana to read them.

"Hang on a minute," said Alistair frowning. "Where did you get those?" He was surprised to see Fearghal actually blush.

"Well, we..um... " muttered Fearghal, refusing to look at him.

"You went to Loghain's estate, didn't you? I can't believe you! Are you mad? What if you'd been caught?" Alistair was furious.

"Then I'd be in Fort Drakon and you'd be heading out to Haven!" retorted Fearghal.

"You lied to me! You sat there and _agreed_ with me that it was an unnecessary risk. You told me what you thought I wanted to hear and went ahead and did it anyway."

"Well, I did agree with you... sort of," mumbled Fearghal.

Alistair snorted.

"You were right about it being too risky for both of us to go, but the chance that the vial might be in Loghain's estate was too good to pass up. Maker knows how long it will take us to get to the place on Genitivi's map and then to Redcliffe; probably the best part of a month. I get why Eamon is important, but we still have to visit Orzammar and find the Dalish. I just thought that if we could get the vial it would save us some time."

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "So why not just say that yesterday?" he demanded. "Better still, why not send Leliana and Zevran back to the estate?"

"Because I didn't want an endless discussion about it. Because you refuse to lead, yet you bitch and quibble about every damned decision I make! I just wanted to get it done," yelled Fearghal, his fists bunching.

"I see. So you want the marsh witch to speak her mind, but I'm just supposed to shut up and let you go ahead with whatever half-baked, cock-eyed plan comes into your head?"

"Well, you fucking lead then!" Fearghal sprang out of his chair and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"I think that some breakfast is in order," said Leliana, setting the letters down and nudging Zevran. He took the hint and followed her from the room. Alistair barely glanced at them as they passed him. He sat in the chair, fuming to himself. _He treats me like some sort of child. A child that can't be trusted to have a sensible opinion or anything useful to say._ He looked up as Zevran, entered carrying two steaming mugs of tea.

Zevran offered a mug to Alistair. "Leliana thought this might help."

Alistair glared at the assassin but accepted the tea. Zevran just grinned and seated himself in an armchair. He sipped his tea, slurping it noisily, then looked across at Alistair.

"Tell me, Alistair, are you truly angry because Fearghal went behind your back, or because he took me with him?"

"No!" protested Alistair. _No!_ _Yes! Partly..._ "You think I shouldn't be angry because he went sneaking off on a foolhardy, dangerous mission without telling me? And really, out of all of us, was Fearghal really the best person to go with you?"

Zevran shrugged. "On the face of it, perhaps not, but as it turned out, if I had taken anyone else, we would probably be in Fort Drakon by now."

Alistair put his mug down. "I'm going to get washed and shaved before breakfast." He fetched a jug of hot water then went upstairs. He was surprised to see Fearghal in the room they had shared, leaning against the window frame, starting out over the city. He half-turned and nodded at Alistair, his face flat. Alistair returned the gesture, then stripped of his shirt and began to shave.

"I meant it, you know. If you think all of my decisions are so awful, I'm happy for you to lead," said Fearghal, still staring out of the window.

Alistair snorted. "Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I'm stranded somewhere without any pants." He scraped the razor across his face. "It's just...look, I know I've had a sheltered life. I probably _am_ naïve, but I'm not stupid."

Alistair set the razor down and rinsed the last traces of soap from his face. "We're the last two Grey Wardens left in the whole of Ferelden. We need to be able to trust each other. I don't know _why_ we're necessary to end the Blight, I only know that Duncan and the other wardens were adamant that the Archdemon could only be defeated by a Grey Warden. We both need to stay one step ahead of Loghain until this is done. We can't afford to take unnecessary risks."

Fearghal stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone behind your back like that."

"Fair enough." Alistair nodded and started to wash.

Fearghal watched Alistair for a moment longer, then shook himself and went to get some more hot water.


	35. Chapter 35

The party hadn't been ready to leave Denerim until mid-afternoon, but Fearghal had been keen to start out towards Redcliffe and so they had walked for a few miles before setting up camp. Fearghal looked up in surprise as Leliana came and sat next to him by the camp fire; he'd been staring into the flames, lost in thought. She held out the small bundle of Howe's letters that he'd found in Loghain's estate.

"What did you make of them?" he asked, stuffing them inside his armour.

"It's hard to say," said Leliana, shrugging. "The trade agreements Howe mentions; what do you know of them?"

"Not much; I was never involved, you understand. I do remember Father was anxious about them. He wasn't keen on the idea in the first place; it was Fergus who pushed for them, said Father was still stuck in the rebellion and it was time to move on. Father thought they were too good to be true, that the Orlesians gave too much away too easily. I know that he had Niven, our seneschal, go over them again and again. In the end, he couldn't find anything obviously wrong with them." He shrugged. "I don't know exactly what they were about, something to do with port fees."

Fearghal looked up and saw Zevran and Alistair listening closely. "For all they were... friends, there was a lot of competition between my father and Howe. If Father had turned down the terms, he knew that Howe would jump at the chance. Howe used to boast at every opportunity about the port at Amaranthine, how busy it is, how much revenue it raised. In the end, I think that decided him, more than anything else. I know that he and Fergus had plans to expand Highever's port, build new warehousing." Fearghal frowned. "I'm sorry, that's all I can tell you. Why, what are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure," admitted Leliana. "I would like to know who the letter that Howe intercepted was addressed to? Your father possibly?"

Fearghal snorted. "I don't think Howe would have scrupled to open a message intended for my father... although he may not have wanted Loghain to know that." He pulled out the letter and studied it again. "Besides, he says he should have brought it to my father's attention. If the letter was intended for him anyway, why would he think he should do that?"

Alistair peered over Fearghal's shoulder, re-reading it. "It was meant for the king." He blushed slightly as everyone stared at him. "Think about it. Howe implies that the letter was addressed to someone of a higher rank than himself. He's an arl, so that would be a teyrn... or the king."

"It still doesn't make any sense! Why send secret messages through Highever? If Howe's prisoner is to be believed, the trade agreements were set up specifically for the messages. Why not use the usual diplomatic channels?" Fearghal frowned; he still couldn't make any sense out of what they'd learned and was becoming frustrated.

"Maybe the intention all along was to implicate your father," suggested Leliana. "Howe's final letter hints that he believes that your father knew the reason behind the trade agreements. Whether this is his own conclusion or whether his prisoner suggested it, I know not. Maybe she _was_ a bard, maybe her whole purpose was to put this thought in Howe's mind."

"Are you telling me that you think _Orlais_ planned my father's murder?" exclaimed Fearghal incredulously.

Leliana shook her head. "I do not know, I do not think so. But they _were_ in secret communication with the king; there is definitely more here than meets the eye. Their intention was surely to sow discord and mistrust. As to why... " Leliana shrugged.

"Loghain would say it's all an Orlesian plot, that they planned to invade Ferelden again," snorted Alistair. "Maybe the Blight's not such a bad thing after all. With a civil war going on, Ferelden's ripe for the picking."

"But would there be a civil war without the Blight?" Fearghal chuckled. "I don't think even Loghain could pin the Blight on Orlais."

Fearghal tucked the letters back into his armour. Leliana and Zevran moved away and Alistair went to wash the pots. Fearghal looked over at Morrigan's little fire and shook his head in wonder. Wynne was sat with her and pale blue and green flashes occasionally flared between their hands. Fearghal had been staggered when they had rejoined the others and found that Morrigan, prompted by boredom as she would have it, had asked Wynne to start teaching her some healing spells. Fearghal hadn't expected the two women to hit it off, but Morrigan's desire to learn and Wynne's love of teaching was apparently enough for the two to put their differences to one side.

Fearghal yawned and, grabbing his pack, crawled into the tent he shared with Alistair. He stripped off his armour and tucked the letters down into his pack, pulling out his bedding. He shuffled out of his breeches and folded them on top of his armour, then laid out his bedroll and crawled on to it and wrapped the blanket tightly around him, shivering slightly. He was starting to doze when Alistair crawled into the tent.

"Oh! I didn't think... I mean I was expecting... er... " blustered Alistair, unable to hide his surprise.

"Spit it out, Alistair," sighed Fearghal. "And closed the damned flap, you're letting the cold in."

"Well, I just thought that after... you know... that you might... with Zevran." Alistair fumbled with the ties on the tent flaps, suddenly all fingers and thumbs.

Fearghal snorted softly, then grinned to himself. "Would you like to repeat that with actual words, just so I'm absolutely sure I understand what you're trying to say."

Alistair grunted as he pulled off his armour. "You know what I mean," he huffed crossly. He heard Fearghal snigger.

"You think that because I spent the night with Zevran that I...what? Should... would start sharing his tent?"

"Well, I just thought... you know... " mumbled Alistair, crawling onto his bedroll and huddling under his blanket.

"No, I _don't_ know because you don't actually seem to be able to say the words!" laughed Fearghal. "I spent one night with him, that's all."

"That's all?" echoed Alistair.

Fearghal turned on to his side and propped his head on his hand. "It was just one night, Alistair. A one-off, a one night stand, just a moment when it felt right and now the moment's gone."

"B-but don't you feel... I don't know... embarrassed or something?"

"Why would I?" Fearghal was startled at the suggestion.

"Well, because you... you...and he... " Alistair groaned.

"Had sex? Why would I be embarrassed? We both enjoyed it." Fearghal chuckled. "Maferath's balls, Alistair! What are you going to do when you finally lose the precious virginity of yours? Blush to death?"

"Oh, ha ha, very funny," muttered Alistair, glad that Fearghal couldn't see him blushing in the dark; his face felt like it was about to burst into flames. "So is that all it is to you? S-sex, I mean... a 'one-off'?"

Fearghal sighed and rolled on to his back. "No, not always," he replied softly after a long moment.

Alistair winced, cursing himself. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"I suppose Teagan told you... about Rory."

"What? Oh... no. You were... talking in your sleep, at Flemeth's hut. And there was what happened in the Fade, at the Mage tower," explained Alistair.

"Ah."

Alistair hesitated, then asked, "Do you mind if I ask you something about that? What happened in the Fade, I mean."

"You can ask, but I might not answer," said Fearghal.

"Well, it was just that I didn't know my dream wasn't real, not even when Morrigan turned up in it. I just got the impression that you _did_ know it wasn't real. I suppose I just wondered why you hadn't tried to get away or something."

"I have dreams like that all the time," Fearghal told him, with a heavy sigh. "I always know that they're not real, that the people in them are already d-dead. I didn't realise that we were trapped in the fade by that... thing though."

 _Maker's breath! I'd rather have darkspawn nightmares!_ "That makes sense."

"What did _you_ dream about in the Fade?" Fearghal asked idly.

Alistair tensed at the question. "I... um... "

"You don't have to tell me, if it's too personal."

"Oh no! Nothing like that. It was quite boring really. I dreamed I was at the Warden fortress in the Anderfels, Weisshaupt."

Fearghal snorted with laughter. "Bloody hell, Alistair. Is that the best thing those demons could find in your mind to keep you there?"

"Huh! Well, not all of us were as thoroughly debauched in our youth as you were!" huffed Alistair.

Fearghal grunted and turned on to his side, grumbling, "Huh! Debauched indeed. It's called _normal_." He curled up under his blanket. "Good night, Alistair."

"Good night, Fearghal." Alistair listened to the other man settling down. _Maker, I don't know how he can bear to close his eyes at night!_

~o~O~O~

Fearghal and Zevran completed their circuit of the camp and hunkered down by the fire.

"Tell me a little about Antiva, Zev," asked Fearghal, cold and bored.

"I thought you already knew something of Antiva. Your sister-in law was Antivan, was she not?"

Fearghal nodded. "She was... but your impressions must have been very different to hers. Her family was very well off. I'm sure you've seen places she would never have dreamed of going."

"The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there. It's a warm place, not cold and harsh, like Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom... or so the saying goes." Zevran shivered and held his hands out to the fire.

"Do you want to go back?" asked Fearghal.

"It is not really a matter of wanting to go back. I cannot go. At least not yet." Zevran smiled and started to talk about the Antiva he knew, and obviously missed. It was a world away from Oriana's experience. Zevran had been brought up in the poorest part of Antiva City, surrounded by squalor and poverty. He professed to miss the stink of the tannery, although Fearghal found this hard to believe.

"Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship... Ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought, 'Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!' More the fool I, no?"

"Your home is still there, Zev," said Fearghal softly, his thoughts drifting to Highever. _As is mine... what's left of it._

"True, and it's a comforting thought. One simply never knows what is to come next." Zevran glanced at Fearghal, saw the sad look in his eyes. "How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by a handsome Grey Warden, a man who then spares my life? I could not." Zevran grinned slyly at Fearghal.

"Handsome?" Fearghal gaped at him, then snorted, his eyes narrowing.

"Hmm. Perhaps that was a poor choice of words, true though it is. Do you object?"

"Well, no, but... I've spent the last ten years looking in the mirror and seeing someone who looks like he just walked into a barn door." Fearghal grinned at Zevran. "I've been called a lot of things, but never handsome." He started to laugh as if Zevran had just told him a particularly funny joke.

Zevran frowned, unsure what was so funny. "You do not think you are handsome?"

"Hardly," Fearghal told him. "Now Alistair, _he's_ handsome."

"You think your fellow-warden is handsome?" asked Zevran, with a sly grin.

"Don't you?" shot back Fearghal.

"Oh, undoubtedly," agreed Zevran. "Indeed, I am relieved that I do not have to share his tent or his bed. The temptation might be too much to resist. You must have more will power than I, my friend."

"Alistair made it very plain that his _tastes_ are different to mine. Will power has nothing to do with it. I've never been interested in pressing my attentions where they're clearly not welcome." Fearghal laughed nervously.

Zevran gave the warden a long look. "And if his _tastes_ were... more in keeping with your own?"

Fearghal glanced at the tent where Alistair lay sleeping. "Well, they're not; so there's no point even thinking about it. Anyway, I'm not... it's... " He stopped, frowning, then stood and stretched. "I'm getting stiff, I'm going to do another circuit.

Zevran thoughtfully watched him go.

~o~O~o~

Alistair lay on his bedroll, his blood pounding in his ears. Fearghal's laughter had woken him and he had lain quietly, feeling slightly irritated, listening to Zevran talk of leather and boots. Then, suddenly, they had been talking about _him_. Alistair almost groaned aloud as he remembered his stumbling assertion that he _'wasn't like that'_. He'd held his breath at Zevran's question. ' _And if his_ tastes _were... more in keeping with your own?_ ' His heart had hammered against his chest at Fearghal's reply.

Did it mean that if he thought Alistair _was_ interested in men... in _him_ , then... ? but then he'd heard Fearghal's breath hitch as he'd started to say something else. _Rory. It wouldn't make any difference, even if he knew what I felt for him._ Alistair pulled the blanket tight around him, wondering if Zevran knew about Rory; it obviously didn't bother him if he did. Zevran had a barefaced cheek that irritated Alistair, yet he couldn't help admire it at the same time.


	36. Chapter 36

The going along the West Road was slower than Fearghal would have liked. The stream of refugees heading towards Denerim was growing steadily larger. There were virtually no travellers heading the other way, which earned Fearghal and his group many curious looks.

Zevran had made several attempts to engage Fearghal in conversation, but the dark-haired warden was brooding and morose, merely responding in grunts at best. Fearghal's eyes swept the road restlessly, coming to alight on Alistair and Leliana every few minutes.

"Zev, would you mind moving up to the front with Leliana and asking Alistair to drop back here, please?"

For a moment, Zevran wondered if he'd irritated Fearghal with his chatter, but there was no heat in the warden's words; his eyes continued to sweep the road, as if he was distracted more than anything else.

Fearghal watched the assassin make his way up to the front of the group and speak to Alistair. Alistair looked back at him, then moved to the side of the road, waiting for the rest of the group to pass. Fearghal slowed his pace, letting the rest of the group pull ahead a little.

Alistair looked at him curiously as they drew level. "Is something wrong?"

Fearghal walked with him for a few moments before replying. "I'm not sure," he admitted, frowning. "What do you make of Leliana?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you usually take your watch with her. You must talk; you know, to pass the time."

Alistair groaned. "Shoes, hair, ribbons, then more shoes. Did you know that there was a noblewoman in Orlais who decorated her hair with live birds?"

Fearghal stared at him and Alistair smirked. "Yeah, I stopped listening at that point. I usually do the meditation exercises they taught us at the monastery to pass the time."

"You make her sound like she's one Archdemon short of a Blight!" muttered Fearghal.

Alistair burst out laughing. "Maybe... but more in a _'Ooh! Pretty colours'_ kind of way than _'Muahahaha! I am Princess Stabbity! Stab, kill, kill!'_ "

Fearghal stopped and blinked at Alistair, then sniggered. "Princess _Stabbity_?"

Alistair blushed. "You know what I mean," he muttered. "Actually, sometimes, when she thinks no-one's looking, she just looks so... so sad. It makes me wonder if we did the right thing, taking her away from her life."

"It was her choice." pointed out Fearghal. He hesitated before adding, "And that's what bothers me."

"Why?" asked Alistair.

Fearghal glanced towards the group making sure they wouldn't be overheard. "It hadn't occurred to me until I re-read Howe's letters. He mentioned Orlesians bards. It just made me think, that's all. We know practically nothing about Leliana apart from the fact that she's from Orlais."

"Are you serious?" spluttered Alistair.

"I don't know," admitted Fearghal. "It just seems odd. She pops up out of nowhere, a chantry sister of all things! She's obviously skilled; she's not as good as Zevran with daggers, but I don't think I've ever seen anyone who could match her with a bow. She can certainly pick locks better than Zevran can! I'd love to know what she was up to before Lothering."

Alistair snorted. "Here we are, travelling with an Antivan Crow and you're worrying about _Leliana_?"

"It's not the same," argued Fearghal. He caught Alistair's sceptical look and scowled. "That I spent the night with Zevran has nothing to do with it. The simple fact is that we've known what Zevran is right from the start, he made no secret about what he was. If he was still hoping to collect on us, he's had ample opportunity to kill us, me especially."

"Maybe Loghain wants us alive? A nice show trial followed by a public execution to keep the masses distracted." blustered Alistair, feeling a little guilty that Fearghal had read him so easily.

"I doubt it. Anyway, Zevran could have betrayed us in Denerim if that had been the case."

Alistair held his hands up in defeat. "I take your point. I don't like him much, and I'm still not sure I trust him but, I agree; if wanted to betray us he could have done so by now."

Fearghal walked on a little way, then glanced sidelong at Alistair. "Why _did_ Leliana want to join us?" he asked, as casually as he could.

"You don't remember?" Alistair asked innocently.

"Not exactly," mumbled Fearghal, refusing to catch Alistair's eye. "I was a little... under the weather."

"Under the weather?" Alistair burst out laughing. "As I remember it you were legless! Pie-eyed; three sheets to the wind; paralytic, falling down drunk!"

"All right, Alistair, I was drunk. There's no need to go on about it!" grumbled Fearghal. "Just tell me what she said."

"Weeeell," drawled Alistair, "she said that the Maker had told her to come with us."

"Oh, ha ha. Very funny. What did she really say?"

"That's what she said; honestly, Fearghal," Alistair assured him.

Fearghal peered suspiciously at Alistair. "Please say you're joking." Alistair shook his head and Fearghal groaned. "The _Maker_ told her to join us? Andraste's tits! What was I thinking?"

"You could hardly stand up, let alone think!" snorted Alistair. "As I recall, you were most enthusiastic. Welcomed her with open arms."

Fearghal did a double-take at him, looking horrified.

"No! I don't mean... literally." Alistair blushed, suddenly flustered. He changed the subject. "Anyway, do you really think she's a bard?"

"I have no idea," sighed Fearghal, "but I think we need to know more about her. You stay back here and I'll send Zevran back."

Alistair suppressed a groan at the thought of spending the rest of the day listening to Zevran's sly innuendoes and subtle jibes at his expense as he watched Fearghal move up to the head of the group.

The Antivan joined him, grinning, then feigned a look of exaggerated hurt. "Oh, Alistair, you wound me! Please do not look so disappointed."

Alistair just shook his head and rolled his eyes. He watched Fearghal walking with Leliana, stooping slightly, deep in conversation.

Zevran followed his look. "So interested in Leliana, all of a sudden. He is a mysterious man, our warden."

For reasons he didn't really want to examine, Alistair bristled at Zevran's description of Fearghal as _our warden_. Before he could reply, Zevran continued.

"Fearghal is always telling me that ' _I am not his type_ ', but surely not Leliana."

"You seemed close enough to his type the other night," snorted Alistair before he could stop himself. He winced; giving the elf an opening was always a mistake.

Zevran looked up at him, smiling. "Ah, that was you on the landing? I hope we didn't disturb your rest."

"Not at all," muttered Alistair, hoping that would end the conversation.

"You must be a heavy sleeper, my friend. I fear Leliana gave me a severe telling off for making too much noise and disturbing her sleep. Of course, when I explained to her that Fearghal is an extremely ardent and accomplished lover she was most understanding and kind enough to forgive me." He glanced sidelong at Alistair. "As I'm sure you are aware, Fearghal is a _very_ sensual man."

"What?" squeaked Alistair. "Why would I be aware of any such thing?"

"Oh? I just thought that with the two of you sharing a tent, that maybe..."

"You know very well it's not like that!" retorted Alistair, trying not to let Zevran get under his skin.

Zevran shook his head and sighed sadly. "That is indeed a shame, Alistair. Truly, you do not know what you are missing. Like I said, Fearghal is a very _sensual_ man. He is _very_ good with his hands, very... bah! What is the word? He likes to touch, to be touched... _tattile_... "

"Tactile?" suggested Alistair faintly.

"Yes, tactile! That is the word. He is also _very_ talented with his mouth. Truly, it would have been impossible to remain quiet under such... attention. Still, I am glad that we did not disturb your slumber."

"That's quite all right," murmured Alistair weakly, lost in a daydream of what it might be like to be on the receiving end of Fearghal's attentions.

~o~O~o~

"How did you like Denerim, Leliana? How does it compare to the cities in Orlais?" asked Fearghal.

"Oh, it is not so grand, but I liked it. I hadn't realised how much I missed the bustle of a city. There is always so much going on." Leliana smiled up at him. "My mother was from Denerim, so it was interesting to see where she grew up."

Fearghal couldn't hide his surprise and Leliana smiled again. "It was before the rebellion, of course. She was a lady's maid to an Orlesian noblewoman. After the rebellion, the lady returned to Orlais and my mother went with her. I was born in Orlais but have always considered myself Fereldan."

Fearghal wondered idly who Leliana's father had been, but it seemed impolite to mention it.

" Mother died when I was very young. Lady Cecilie let me stay with her. I had no one else. She was quite old then, and she had me study music and dance to entertain her. It is unfair, that I have more memories of Cecilie than my mother."

Fearghal felt a pang of guilt. He had so many memories of his own mother, yet he could hardly bear to think of her. He turned his attention back to Leliana, aware that she was speaking again.

"Strangely, the only thing I really remember of Mother was her scent. She kept dried flowers in her closet, amongst her clothes. Small, white Fereldan wildflowers with a sweet fragrance. Mother called them Andraste's Grace. They were very rare in Orlais."

 _Roses... Mother always smelled of roses. Father always said she smelled like a garden... fresh air and roses._

"How did you end up in Lothering? Fearghal asked. He was only half-listening as Leliana explained how she had come to be there and then went on to talk about her life in the cloister.

His mind wandered as he remembered how his mother had loved roses. Her rose garden had been her great passion, her pride and joy. She'd spent hours out there, in all weathers, cutting, grafting and pruning. He remembered being very small and squatting down in the loamy earth, watching her work. Her obvious pleasure as she'd explained what she was doing and why. He remembered being told off for swatting in panic at a hoverfly, thinking it was a wasp.

She had pointed out to him the different insects in the garden and told him that some were good, like ladybirds and hoverflies and that they helped control the ones that harmed her precious roses, like the greenfly. He remembered her delight when he and Fergus had pooled their funds when they were boys and bought her a bottle of rose oil for her birthday; how father had written the letter to Denerim for them to order it. Fearghal almost stumbled as a rush of grief swelled up inside him.

"Are you all right, Fearghal," asked Leliana, her face full of concern.

"Sorry! Not looking where I was going," mumbled Fearghal. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Fearghal cleared his throat awkwardly. "When you joined us... you... er... you said that... "

"That the Maker had sent me?" asked Leliana. She nodded. "I believe he did."

"Why?" asked Fearghal, unable to hide his curiosity.

Leliana looked faintly embarrassed, then began to explain. "I had a dream... In it there was an impenetrable darkness... it was so dense, so real. And there was a noise, a terrible ungodly noise... I stood on a peak and watched as the darkness consumed everything... and when the storm swallowed the last of the sun's light, I...I fell, and the darkness drew me in... "

"I don't understand," said Fearghal, frowning.

"The dream was not all. There's more... When I woke, I went to the chantry's gardens, as I always do. But that day, the rosebush in the corner had flowered... Everyone knew that bush was dead. It was grey and twisted and gnarled, the ugliest thing you ever saw, but there it was, a single, beautiful rose. It was as thought the Maker stretched out His hand to say: 'Even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith.'"

Fearghal grunted. Hope was something he barely understood any more. There was only duty and vengeance; he was filled with fervour for the latter and a grudging acceptance of the former.

Leliana looked at him knowingly. "I suppose you find that hard to understand. It's all right. I know what I know, and no one will ever make that untrue."

Fearghal felt flustered at her flash of insight.

"I heard that in Orlais, minstrels are often spies," he said, trying to change the subject. He didn't miss the guarded look that came into Leliana's eyes.

"Oh? Where did you hear this?"

"I don't remember," replied Fearghal shrugging. "Howe's letters mentioned a bard and it reminded me."

"Not all minstrels are spies, most are just singers and storytellers. But some of them are... are what we call bards." Leliana's voice was level, her eyes fixed upon the road ahead.

"I thought minstrels were bards." Fearghal was confused.

"Bards are minstrels, and more. Spies, as you say. Some say there is a bard order, but I don't think this is true. Many bards work alone, or in small groups, doing the bidding of a patron who pays for their services." Leliana's voice was matter-of-fact, aware that Fearghal was watching her intently.

"Patron? What sort of Patron?"

"Nobles, mostly. In Orlais, there is much rivalry amongst the high-born. They fight over land, influence and the favour of the empress. But they cannot do this openly, because it is impolite..." Fearghal snorted scornfully. "... and in public they wear smiling faces and pretend to be civil. In secret they plot and scheme to destroy each other. It is a game completely meaningless to anyone but its players."

"You seem to know quite a lot about these bards," Fearghal said, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

Leliana sighed heavily. "And I should, shouldn't I, after having spent most of my adult life as one. You've guessed as much, I'm sure. But does it really matter what I was? What's past is past."

"If it _is_ truly past, but why were you living as a cloistered sister in rural Ferelden?"

"I... found myself in Ferelden and sheltered from bad weather in the chantry. And when the storm passed I just... did not want to leave. I like to say the Maker brought me here."

Fearghal studied Leliana, trying to decide if she was lying. She had admitted readily enough that she had been a bard, but Fearghal felt worried that she had offered up the information too easily. On the other hand, she had been living in Lothering's chantry for some time. It was hard to conceive of a plot that had been set in motion so far in advance, at least one that concerned him or Alistair or any of the Grey Wardens.

Her conviction when she had spoken or her vision had rung true. While Fearghal didn't believe it for one moment, he was sure that _she_ did. The quiet fervour that had underlaid her words put him in mind of Mother Mallol. He frowned, pushing the thought away. _Too many ghosts._ He still had the nagging sense that he was missing something. _I can almost understand how Father and Loghain felt._

He looked at Leliana. "Very well, I'm prepared to accept that you are telling me the truth." His eyes hardened. "Don't let me find out that you've lied. Alistair and I need to be able to trust those that travel with us; too much depends on us."

Leliana's eyes widened and she nodded. "I understand."

~o~O~o~

Wynne yawned and announced her intention to retire. Morrigan set wards around the camp and retired to her own fire, as usual, while Sten disappeared into his tent saying that he needed to meditate. Leliana rummaged in her pack and produced some locks that she handed to Zevran, suggesting that he practice his lockpicking skills in his tent.

"But it is practically black in there, my dear. I will not be able to see," he protested.

"Exactly," she told him. "You should be able to open them by touch alone."

Leliana waited until Zevran was in his tent, then approached Fearghal. "Could I speak to you alone, Fearghal?" she asked quietly, with a surreptitious glance at Alistair, who was half-asleep by the fire.

"If this is about our conversation earlier, then Alistair knows. If you have anything further you need to tell me, then he should hear it too," replied Fearghal.

Leliana hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

Fearghal reached over and shook Alistair's arm. "Alistair. Leliana needs to talk to us."

Alistair's eyes flew open, then he grunted and moved closer.

"So, Leliana, what else do you need to tell us?" asked Fearghal.

"I-I didn't tell you everything. About why I left Orlais." Leliana's eyes flicked nervously from Fearghal to Alistair, then back again.

"Why not," asked Fearghal.

Leliana lowered her eyes. "I didn't want to talk about it. It... it's not easy but... what happened to me... maybe it will affect us, maybe not, but you should know."

Fearghal looked over at Alistair, who merely shrugged back at him.

"I came to Ferelden and the Chantry because I was being hunted, in Orlais. I was betrayed by someone I thought I knew and could trust." Leliana paused, then took a deep breath and continued, her voice trembling. "M-Marjolaine... she was my mentor... and friend."

Haltingly, Leliana told the tale, about how she had been sent to recover some documents and, having recovered them, realised that her mentor was selling Orlesian secrets to other countries; how she had feared for her mentor and spoken to her about it only to be turned in to the authorities and made to look as if _she_ was the traitor.

Leliana's face clouded as she related her harsh treatment, alluding to torture and other things that made both men flinch. Alistair looked flustered, torn between embarrassment and sympathy, while Fearghal's eyes hardened, memories of Oriana and the other women who had been abused at Highever threatening to rush in. Steadying herself, she told them about how her skills had been useful when an opportunity to escape had presented itself. She had seized her chance and fled to Ferelden, seeking refuge at Lothering, grateful to put her old life behind her.

"And that is the reason I am here. The real reason," finished Leliana, her eyes flicking nervously between Fearghal and Alistair.

Fearghal sighed and rubbed his face. "Thank you for trusting us with this. It can't have been easy."

Leliana gave a wan smile. "No, but it feels good to have this off my chest. Thank you for listening, and understanding." She slumped tiredly and Fearghal realised just how hard it had been for her.

"Go and get some sleep," Fearghal told her.

"B-but I'm supposed to be on first watch with Alistair," protested Leliana.

"I'll do it. Zev can take second watch with Bane for company," Fearghal assured her.

"I... thank you. Good night." She turned and crawled into her tent.


	37. Chapter 37

Once everyone else had settled down for the night, Alistair and Fearghal separated to do a circuit of the camp and then met up at the camp fire.

"So," said Fearghal, with a sly grin, "is this usually the point that you get to discuss shoes and hair ribbons?"

"Don't," groaned Alistair. "Not even in jest!"

Fearghal sniggered. "All right, we'll talk about manly things." He dropped his voice a notch and intoned solemnly. "Swords, armour, ale, wenches. Well, not wenches; my experience is pretty limited."

"Not as limited as mine," grunted Alistair.

Fearghal winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to rub it in." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Nice boots. Silverite?"

Alistair snorted with laughter. "The latest in templar accessories, don't you know." He grinned at Fearghal. "Actually, that was the only thing I liked about becoming a templar; the uniform. I'm a sucker for good tailoring. It's actually very good armour. I was surprised when Knight-Commander Greagoir offered it to me, seeing as how I was never a full templar."

"It was the least he could do after we pulled his balls out of the fire," argued Fearghal.

Alistair shook his head, trying to shake the mental image Fearghal's words conjured up.

"I feel a bit of a fraud, wearing it," confessed Alistair.

Fearghal shrugged. "It's actually quite a good disguise. Loghain and Howe are looking for a Grey Warden, not a templar. Besides, I would have thought the chantry owed you something for all those years you spent in a monastery. How long were you there exactly?"

"Almost eleven years. Eamon sent me there just after my tenth birthday. Duncan conscripted me on the twenty-third of Drakonis. A date that will forever be etched in my memory!" Alistair grinned so happily that Fearghal couldn't help but smile.

"What was it like, growing up in a monastery?" asked Fearghal curiously.

"Some of it was alright. I enjoyed the training and quite a lot of the studying, too. I think, if I hadn't been who I am, it might have been easier." Alistair looked away.

"How do you mean?"

Alistair sighed heavily. "The first time we all had to strip off on bath night, they all took one look at me and wanted to know whose son I was. It's not that unusual for younger sons of the nobility to be sent to the chantry, especially if there's already 'an heir and a spare'." Alistair's gaze flicked to Fearghal, who nodded.

"Well, they soon realised that I wasn't anyone's son... not a legitimate son anyway. The obvious conclusion for them to draw was that I was Arl Eamon's son; I'd already told them I was from Redcliffe."

"Would it have been so bad to let them think that?" asked Fearghal.

"With hindsight, probably not," conceded Alistair. "Although I'm not sure how _he'd_ have felt about it. But I was so angry with him. It felt like he'd just _dumped_ me there. I knew, even at that age, that I couldn't tell them who my father really was, but it infuriated me that they thought it was the Arl. I just used to say I had no idea who my real father was but, of course, they didn't believe me. They used to accuse me of putting on airs and graces and then they started calling me 'Lord Alistair'." He flushed, feeling the old resentment flaring up.

Fearghal watched Alistair staring into the flames, his face tight and closed.

"Boys can be cruel, especially when they gang up. I remember when R-Rory first came to Highever to squire... he took a lot of teasing... bullying, I suppose."

Alistair's head came up in surprise. The last thing he'd expected was Fearghal to start talking of his past.

"Why did they gang up on him?" he asked.

Fearghal snorted in disgust. "Because he had red hair. I don't know if it's something about that age, or whether it's just any big group of boys; it's like they have to single one out."

"They gave him a hard time?" asked Alistair.

"Some of it was just stupid name-calling, but some was spiteful, deliberately trying to get him into trouble. He was the youngest squire we had, but a year older than me. As a snot-nosed eleven year old, I was quite impressed with him. At that age I was still quite intimidated by some of the older squires and not very confident about challenging them in any way. I was just starting my own training in earnest and spending more time with them. In the end I spoke to my father about it. He gave me this long lecture about how we had a duty to care for all in our service."

Fearghal smiled wryly. "I soon realised that all I had to do was show up and look disapproving for them to shut up; that as the Teyrn's son, they wouldn't dare torment me in the same way that they did Rory. So I became his shadow." Fearghal chuckled. "I think he was quite sick of me following him around everywhere, but after a time we became friends. In a way that could have gone against him, but it didn't. People started to accept him and it all settled down."

"Is that why you and he... " Alistair stumbled to a halt, blushing. "Sorry. That's none of my business."

Fearghal frowned, but Alistair was relieved that he didn't look angry, merely thoughtful.

"We were friends for a long time before we became lovers. It wasn't something either of us expected," Fearghal told him. He looked away, staring into the camp fire. In a way, it was a relief to finally speak of Rory to somebody, but he could feel the emptiness starting to gnaw at his insides. He ached to talk about how much he loved Rory, how much he missed him, but his throat closed at the thought of trying to say the words. Fearghal saw the flames blur and blinked away tears. He stood abruptly.

"Time to do another circuit," he grunted.

~o~O~o~

 _Fearghal struggled as Duncan held him, arms pinioned behind his back. Before him, his mother knelt on the floor, cradling his father's head and murmuring to him softly. His father's face was ashen, his breath coming in shallow gasps; he lay in a pool of blood, dark against the stone floor; more black than red. Fearghal heard heavy footsteps approaching and struggled fiercely in Duncan's iron grip._

 _"Please, we must help them!" he begged._

 _"You are needed elsewhere, Fearghal. You are a Grey Warden, you are sworn to fight the darkspawn." Duncan's voice was low, but firm. Slowly, Duncan started to drag him backwards turning him. Fearghal pushed backwards against Duncan as the man tried to propel him forwards, away from his parents._

 _"Fearghal! Fearghal!"_

 _His mother's voice. Fearghal wrenched his upper body round. His mother stood in front of his father's body, facing the men who approached; Fearghal couldn't tell if his father still lived. Rendon Howe, his face twisted in a sneer, approached, flanked by several guards._

 _Howe's eyes flicked towards Fearghal's father. "Finish him!" he barked. Fearghal saw one of the men draw a great sword off his back as the others moved towards his mother, unsheathing their weapons._

 _Fearghal struggled to break free. "No!" he screamed._

~o~O~o~

Alistair almost lost his balance as Fearghal's eyes flew open and he shot up from the bedroll, grabbing the front of Alistair's shirt and pushing him backwards.

"We have to help her, we can't just _leave_ her!" he yelled, his eyes wild.

Alistair grabbed Fearghal's arms to steady himself. "Help who, Fearghal?" he asked quietly.

Fearghal stared at him in confusion, then Alistair saw reality rush back in and Fearghal went limp, his hands falling away from Alistair's shirt. Alistair thought Fearghal might have fallen if Alistair hadn't already had hold of him. Fearghal trembled violently as he tried to pull himself together. After a long moment, he stiffened, then pulled away from Alistair.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Bad dream. You know what they're like." Fearghal's eyes flicked towards Alistair, then away again.

Alistair recognised the lie, but just shrugged. "Sure, I know." He watched Fearghal rub his hand over his face. "I'll bring you in some tea. Breakfast is almost ready."

Fearghal nodded and reached for his breeches, refusing to look at Alistair.

Alistair ducked out of the tent, ignoring the curious looks of the others. He made some tea for Fearghal and took it to him. Fearghal was sitting on the bedroll, hunched over his knees.

"Thanks," muttered Fearghal as Alistair handed him the mug of tea.

"Would it help to talk about it?" asked Alistair.

"No," growled Fearghal, glaring at him.

"Fair enough. Breakfast will be five minutes or so." Alistair backed out of the tent and left him to it.

Fearghal's hand trembled as he raised the mug to his mouth. He winced; the tea was scalding hot, but it distracted him slightly from the swirl of thoughts that made his hands shake. Not knowing exactly what happened to his mother was agonising; he had done his best to put it out of his mind, to put _her_ out of his mind but talking to Leliana the previous day had recalled her so vividly. Imagining her death filled Fearghal with horror; the thought that she might have survived and be in Howe's hands was worse. The nightmare had filled him with a sense of desperation, of powerlessness that had scarcely abated now he was awake.

~o~O~o~

The group heaved a sigh of relief as they crested the hill and Redcliffe came into view. Once past Lothering, the stream of refugees had slowed to a trickle and they had been able to make up some of the time they had lost. The lighter mood that had overtaken Fearghal on their previous visit to Redcliffe and lasted all the way to Denerim was gone. They had all been awoken almost every night by his screaming and shouting. His mood was dark and sullen and the rest of them were growing fractious and short-tempered.

Fearghal felt as if he was being engulfed in a tidal wave of memories. It was almost as if once one escaped, he couldn't hold the rest back. No matter how hard he tried not to think about his family, his lover, his friends, they intruded upon his thoughts. His dreams were haunted by them; distorted representations of that awful night, almost worse than what had actually happened. His imagination filled in the gaps, his guilt coloured the events at Highever. Night after night, his mother screamed for help, his father reproached him for failing in his duty to protect Castle Cousland, Rory begged him to stay.

On a good day, he merely grunted; on a bad one, he snapped and snarled at everyone. Even Zevran was unable to lift his spirits. The only thing that did was dealing with the occasional band of darkspawn they encountered. Alistair was reminded of how Fearghal was when he arrived at Ostagar; the unbridled fury that had hovered so close to the surface and was unleashed when he was fighting. Afterwards there would be a fierce sense of satisfaction about him, then it would fade and Fearghal would stomp off up the road with his dog. It was as if he didn't care if the rest of them followed or not.

As they passed through the castle gates they were greeted by Ser Perth who seemed genuinely pleased to see them. Ser Perth was taken aback at the surly manner of Fearghal's response but pulled himself together quickly.

"Bann Teagan is down in the village, but I sent a squire down to fetch him as soon as I realised it was you coming down the hill," Ser Perth said. He turned and started to cross the courtyard. "Come, I'll organise some refreshments."

They had barely entered the great hall when Teagan hurried through the doors.

"Fearghal, Alistair! It's good to see you again! You have news?" Teagan asked, slightly breathless.

"Teagan." Fearghal nodded his head tersely, in acknowledgement. "We think we know where Genitivi was heading."

Teagan shot a questioning look at Alistair, who shrugged in reply. "Come, we'll go to my sitting room and you can tell me more," said Teagan. He looked round the rest of the group. "I believe Perth has organised some refreshment for you in the dining room." Teagan turned and led Fearghal and Alistair away.

~o~O~o~

At the knock on his door, Alistair scooped up his dirty clothes and crossed the room. Instead of the maid collecting his laundry, he found an anxious-looking Teagan.

"Oh, sorry! I thought you were the maid."

Teagan smiled. "Toss them out into the corridor. I passed her on the way up. This way we won't be disturbed."

Alistair frowned as he dumped the pile of laundry outside his door. _What's going on?_

"Is there a problem?" Alistair asked, closing the door behind him.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, actually," confessed Teagan. "Fearghal looks shocking and he seems so... so... depressed is the wrong word."

"This was what he was like at Ostagar," Alistair told him. "I don't know what set it off. He was fine in Denerim, then on the way back he started having nightmares. Not the usual... " Alistair stopped as he saw Teagan's eyebrows shoot up and sighed heavily.

"It's not widely known, so I'd appreciate it if you kept it to yourself; Grey Wardens dream of darkspawn, more so when they're very active during a Blight. Fearghal's nightmares seem to be more than the usual darkspawn nightmares, though. He wakes screaming and babbling; I assume he's dreaming about what happened at Highever. Several times, he's mentioned ' _her_ ', but he won't talk about it. I don't know if it's his mother or his sister-in-law or someone else entirely."

Teagan sank into the armchair by the window as Alistair perched on the bed.

"You know that Fearghal spoke to Connor, after Isolde... died?" asked Teagan.

Alistair nodded, wondering what all this had to do with Connor.

"Connor told me that Fearghal said that his own mother sacrificed her own life that he might live," Teagan told him.

Alistair's eyes went wide. "Maker's breath, that must have been awful!"

"Does he never talk of it at all?" Asked Teagan, frowning.

"No," sighed Alistair. "Occasionally he's mentioned his family in passing, usually his brother, but as soon as he realises he's done it he clams up."

"That's not good," said Teagan, shaking his head. "For someone to have lost so much, yet try to continue as if nothing had happened. It's asking for trouble; something's got to give, sooner or later."

"I don't know what to do, Teagan," confessed Alistair.

"I don't think there's much you can do, except maybe try and take some of the pressure off him," Teagan admitted. He gave Alistair a long look, then asked, "Do you know about Rory?"

Alistair felt his face grow hot as he nodded. "You knew him?"

Alistair saw the faraway look in Teagan's eyes as he smiled sadly and replied, "Yes, I knew him. We were... close at one time." Teagan came to himself again and cleared his throat. "It was a long time ago but we remained friends and kept in touch."

"What was he like?" asked Alistair.

Teagan looked thoughtful. "Very different to Fearghal. Not shy, but he could be very reserved until he got to know people. He preferred to be on the sidelines, content to watch people and get their measure. " Teagan chuckled. "Rory told me that they have a saying in the North; ' _Hear all, see all, say nowt_ '. It was something he very much lived by. He took everything in, there wasn't a lot he missed, but he didn't give much away. Nothing ever seemed to faze him and, for all he had the reddest hair you ever saw, he didn't have the temper that's usually said to go with it." Teagan sighed sadly.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. It sounds as if he was a good friend," said Alistair.

"Not at all," said Teagan. "It's good to remember him. For all I miss him, I know that Fearghal must feel his loss much more deeply. They weren't just lovers, they had been friends since they were boys. Rory had been sent to Highever to squire when he was just a boy; they'd grown up together."

"Fearghal told me a little about that. Duncan had gone to Highever to test him for the Grey Wardens," Alistair told him.

Teagan nodded. "Fearghal mentioned it." He sighed heavily. "Maybe, if Duncan could have brought Rory out too... Oh, what's the point? He didn't."

"How are you and Fearghal getting on?" asked Teagan, changing the subject.

"Oh, much better. Or at least we were. Things seemed to be getting better when we left here but since he started having these nightmares, well, not even Zevran can cheer him up and if anyone can, it's usually Zevran."

"He's going to need you, I think, Alistair," said Teagan solemnly. Teagan saw the confusion in Alistair's face. "He can't keep on like this. At some point, it's all going to come crashing down around him. He's going to need someone he can trust."

"I-I understand." Alistair felt a chill run through him at the thought of possibly having to take over from Fearghal. He resolved to do everything he could to make things easier for Fearghal. Maybe, if he could share some of the burden, the crisis that Teagan seemed to think was inevitable could be avoided.

~o~O~o~

Wynne joined them at the dinner table just as everyone started to eat.

"How do you find my brother, Wynne?" asked Teagan.

"Not good, my lord." replied Wynne. "This long period of stasis is starting to take its toll on his body. I fear that if we can't revive him soon, well, ... "

"If only we could have found the damned antidote!" burst out Fearghal.

"You did your best, Fearghal. How long do you think it will take to find Genitivi?" asked Teagan, trying to soothe the young man who looked dangerously close to losing his temper.

"It's hard to say. It depends on the weather, how hard the going is in the mountains. Possibly up to two weeks to reach Haven. Even assuming this Haven is where the Sacred Ashes are, it could take up to a month to get there and back," Fearghal replied.

Wynne shook her head. "I don't think the arl has a month."

"Well, what other choice to we have?" demanded Fearghal, his voice rising.

"What about if Wynne stayed here?" suggested Alistair.

Fearghal stared at him in surprise, then looked back at Wynne. "Can you keep Arl Eamon alive for a month?"

"I think so, but won't I be needed with you? What if something happens, if one of you is wounded?" Wynne didn't seem convinced it was a good idea.

Alistair looked across at Morrigan.

"I don't have the same level of skill as Wynne, 'tis true, but I can do the basics adequately enough. I'll do my best to keep you all alive, even you, Alistair." Morrigan smirked at Alistair and he bit his tongue against the retort that begged to be spoken, mindful of his determination to make things as easy as possible for Fearghal.

Alistair turned to Fearghal and grinned. "So, that's all sorted then."

"So it would seem," murmured Fearghal. He pushed back his chair, wiping his mouth on his napkin. "I want to be away at first light tomorrow. I'll see you all in the morning."


	38. Chapter 38

It took ten days to reach Haven. Fearghal set a brutal pace; he had no patience with his own weariness, or anyone else's for that matter. The only upside of each day's exhausting march was that it left him so tired he barely dreamed at all, or if he did, he had no memory of it. As he slept better, so did the rest of the party and tempers improved all round. On the third day the terrain steepened and they found themselves rising higher and higher.

The higher they got, the lower the temperature dropped. By the fifth day, Fearghal's mood had improved enough that he mocked Zevran mercilessly when the warm-blooded Antivan emerged from his tent wearing a sturdy pair of woollen leggings under his leather skirt. Zevran took it all in good part, leering at Fearghal and telling him that if Fearghal wished to remove them, then Zevran wouldn't dream of trying to stop him.

The night time temperatures were viciously cold and they were all grateful for the woollen clothes and extra blankets Fearghal had purchased with the first instalment of the proceeds from the bullion robbery. The cold was easier to deal with in the day time as long as they kept moving. It seemed to Alistair that as they climbed higher, so everyone's spirits seemed to lift. Leliana told tales to entertain them, including a tale she knew of Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds. When Morrigan scoffed at Leliana's version, the bard persuaded her to tell _her_ version. This then led to curious questions about Morrigan's childhood in the Wilds. Morrigan seemed flustered at all the attention, but was prevailed upon to tell them something of her unconventional upbringing. She had even cast an apologetic look at Alistair when she related how her mother had turned hunting templars into a game.

Zevran told outrageous stories about some of the assassinations he had performed for the Crows. To Alistair's mind they seemed to show more luck than judgement but then he was starting to realise that Zevran used flirtation and humour in much the same way that he did himself, or humour at any rate, and wondered how much Zevran embellished his tales just to increase their comedy value. While Fearghal didn't offer up any tales himself, Alistair noticed that he listened closely and he laughed as hard as any of them at Zevran's stories. The only person who remained aloof from it all was Sten.

As they neared Haven the dark-skinned giant seemed to retreat further and further into himself. Sten spoke only when addressed directly and refused to answer any questions about his past. Once or twice Alistair had caught the Qunari staring at Fearghal; the look in his eyes had been quite unnerving. Alistair waited until Sten and Morrigan had the first watch and then broached the subject with Fearghal as they settled down in their bedrolls.

"Fearghal, do you think Sten's all right?"

Fearghal rolled over to face him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's just he seems awfully quiet, even for Sten."

"Oh yeah, because he used to be the life and soul of the party," scoffed Fearghal, chuckling softly.

"I'm serious," hissed Alistair, feeling a flash of irritation. "I know he's never said much, but he seems particularly quiet, and... I know it might sound odd, but I've caught him looking at you strangely."

Fearghal snorted with laughter. "Maferath's balls, what's that supposed to mean? I'm beginning to think Zevran's a bad influence on you!"

"If you're not going to take it seriously, I'm going to sleep," announced Alistair sulkily.

On the tenth day they reached Haven. The village nestled in a hollow at the foot of the mountain. They were surprised to see a guard at the village gate; surely bandits weren't a problem this far from civilisation?

The guard seemed less than pleased by the arrival of visitors. He eyed them up and down, then demanded, "What are you doing in Haven? There is nothing for you here."

"So this _is_ Haven?" asked Fearghal. There had been no sign post or anything else to announce the name of the village, but it was the first village they'd come across in almost a week.

"What do want?" asked the guard, glaring at him.

"We're looking for a chantry brother, Genitivi. He's a scholar and we believe he came here to... do some research," explained Fearghal.

"Who?" The guard scowled. "Perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of him."

Fearghal's eyebrows shot up at the mention of a Revered _Father_ ; he'd never heard of such a thing before. For the moment, he let it go, instead asking. "May we speak to him, please?"

"Unfortunately, he's ministering to the villagers at the moment and can't be disturbed." The guard smirked with satisfaction.

"A Revered Father, huh? That's new," mused Alistair.

The guard's eyes flicked to Alistair. "It has always been so in Haven. We don't question tradition," he growled.

"Please, we're getting very low on supplies. It's taken a long time to get here," said Fearghal.

The guard's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. "You can trade for supplies if you wish, then I suggest you and your companions leave."

"Thank you," said Fearghal, leading the way up the path.

"Is it just me, or did it just get a lot colder?" muttered Alistair at his shoulder.

"It's not the most effusive welcome I've ever received," agreed Fearghal. He grinned at Alistair. "Then again, we're a pretty rum looking bunch, I suppose. I don't expect they see many outsiders."

Alistair sniggered. "It's like the start of a bad joke... a templar, a Qunari, a swamp witch and an elven assassin walk into a bar..."

They both burst out laughing. They were flabbergasted at a frustrated shout from Sten. They had no idea what his words meant, but the tone was less than complementary. The giant Qunari marched up to them, muttering under his breath.

"Tell me, Warden, do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south, and attack the Archdemon from the rear?" he demanded angrily.

The others stared as Fearghal eyed him warily, then smiled. "It'll never see this coming," he replied flippantly, stuffing down the sudden flare of anger.

"Truly," sneered Sten. "It would surprise _me_ if my enemy counter-attacked by running away and climbing a mountain."

Fearghal's eyes narrowed at the accusation of cowardice. "We're not 'running away' from anything," he replied, his voice cold.

"The Archdemon is our goal and we're heading away from it, to find the charred remnants of a dead woman." He stepped forward and glared down at Fearghal. "I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run from battle."

Fearghal didn't flinch. "Well, there's nothing you can do about it. I'm in charge," he snarled.

"Not anymore. I'm taking command," declared Sten.

"Just try it," growled Fearghal, his face flat but his eyes blazing with anger.

"Defend yourself, Warden. We will settle this."

Fearghal pulled his shield off his back and drew his sword as Sten reached behind him for the huge two-handed sword he carried.

The Qunari was over-confident. He swung his sword high overhead and Fearghal screamed with rage and barrelled into him, slamming his shield against the Qunari's body as hard as he could. With his arms raised high over his head, Sten was easily knocked off-balance and staggered backwards. He recovered quickly and came at Fearghal again. Fearghal blocked Sten's blow with his shield, feeling the shockwaves reverberate up his arm; he brought his sword down on Sten's, trying to loosen the great sword from the Qunari's grasp. Fearghal felt the great sword give a little under his own and rushed in, swinging his shield. Sten tried vainly to swing his huge sword, but Fearghal's shield flew backwards and forwards, sending him staggering back. Fearghal punched forwards with his shield and put the giant Qunari on his backside. As he tried to get to his feet, Fearghal's blade whistled through the air and Sten's head flew off, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Fearghal loomed over the Qunari's body. "Lead now, you bastard!" he snarled.

Alistair and Leliana looked on, open-mouthed with shock, while Morrigan frowned, her disapproval obvious. Zevran's face was impassive.

Leliana was the first to find her voice. "You killed him!"

"So I did," retorted Fearghal.

"But... but... " stammered Leliana.

"But nothing. He attacked me, Leliana. He was quite prepared to kill me. There's not an army in Thedas that wouldn't execute him for that kind of insubordination."

"He's right, Leliana," said Alistair. "It's one thing to disagree, but quite a different matter to attack. This wasn't a duel. Even if it had been, Sten was out of line. Fearghal's in charge and if anyone else doesn't like that, they're free to leave."

"So you would have let Sten leave?" asked Morrigan, her tone disbelieving.

Fearghal swung his head to look at her. "No. He was under sentence of death in Lothering, and rightly. Coming with us was his chance to redeem himself. As far as I'm concerned, his original sentence stands; however, if any of the rest of you are unhappy, you're free to leave."

Leliana and Morrigan shook their heads.

"So, that is settled," said Zevran. "Shall we clear up this mess? I don't think it would do to upset the locals." He bent and picked up Sten's head.

Fearghal was distracted by Bane running towards one of the houses. He scrabbled frantically at the door, growling. Fearghal frowned and approached the door. He laid his hand on the great dog's head and Bane quieted. Fearghal turned and caught Alistair's eye, jerking his head. Alistair wandered over.

"What is it?" asked Alistair quietly.

"I don't know, but Bane's really unhappy about something. Arm yourself, just in case." Fearghal looked round and kicked the door open. There was no-one in the small cottage. Bane scrambled past him and flew down to the far end of the large living room, barking furiously. Fearghal and Alistair both followed him, then stopped as the smell hit them simultaneously.

"Ugh! Is that blood?" groaned Alistair.

In front of them was... well, Fearghal didn't know if it was a butcher's block or an altar. The pool of clotting blood on the surface suggested the former; two candlesticks perched incongruously on the top suggested the latter.

"Used for food preparation, perhaps?" suggested Alistair, hopefully.

"Does meat bleed that much?" asked Fearghal.

They both jumped at Zevran's voice. "I wonder... the Crows often made sacrifices of blood; it gave them uncanny abilities."

"Let's get out of here," growled Fearghal.

There was an undignified scramble at the door as three men and a large dog all tried to get through it at the same time. Fearghal almost jumped out of his skin as he practically fell over a small boy waiting just outside.

"Who are you? You shouldn't be here." The boy eyed them suspiciously.

Fearghal looked round. There was no sign of any villagers at all; no-one except the guard at the gate and the boy.

"Where is everyone?" he asked the child.

"In the Chantry. Mother wanted me to go to the Chant, but she doesn't get to tell me what do to anymore!" the boy replied, petulantly.

"Getting too old for that, eh?" grinned Fearghal.

The boy looked at him and smiled triumphantly. "Soon I'll be old enough to go up the mountain and... " he caught himself, as if he'd said too much.

"Go up the mountain?" asked Fearghal, as casually as he could.

The boy regarded him warily, then shrugged. "It's just nicer up there. You wouldn't understand." He glared at Fearghal, then added, "Lowlanders don't belong here." He turned and fled.

"What was all that about?" asked Alistair.

Fearghal stared after the boy. "I have no idea," he said, shaking his head. "Come on, let's find the shop. We might be able to find out more there."

They trooped up the hill. Only one house had a lamp lit; it didn't look obviously like a shop, just another house, but the light suggested that there was someone inside.

Fearghal pushed the door open and went in. At his side, Bane started to growl softly. The place looked more like a large storeroom than a shop, but it obviously wasn't a house. A tall, pale man inside looked at them with surprise.

"Who are you? You're not from Haven... " he said.

"We're just passing through," Fearghal told him with a grin. "We're looking for a man called Brother Genitivi. I don't suppose he's passed through here in the last few months?"

The man didn't even stop to think about it. "No... I've never heard that name."

"You didn't take long to think about it. Maybe you'd like to reconsider," he suggested, his voice cold.

The man swallowed nervously. "We haven't had any visitors in an age. Not brothers or knights or anyone."

Suddenly, Bane whimpered and ran through the small shop, into the back room. Fearghal started after him and was surprised when the man stepped forward and tried to stop him.

"Oi! You can't go back there, that's private!" he yelled.

Fearghal shook the man's hand off his arm and continued after Bane.

"No!" yelled the man. "You have no right!"

Fearghal ignored him and kept going.

"Fearghal!" Alistair's voice rang out in alarm.

Fearghal turned to see the man drop to the floor, a knife clattering to the floor as it fell out of his limp hand. Zevran bent and wiped his blade clean on the man's tunic, grinning up at him.

"Thanks," muttered Fearghal.

"Let's go and see what's worth hiding," said Fearghal grimly.

It soon became obvious what the shop keeper had been at such pains to hide. Bodies. Several of them, in fact. Fearghal and Alistair gagged at the smell; they were none too fresh. Zevran seemed undisturbed by the smell and bent to examine them. He picked a badge of rusting armour and showed it to Fearghal.

"Redcliffe?" he asked.

Fearghal glanced at it and nodded. "I guess we know what happened to the knights that never made it back to Redcliffe." He groaned. "Maker's cock, I need some fresh air! Let's get outside."

Leliana and Morrigan were waiting in the main room. Leliana was working at the lock of a large chest. She smiled with satisfaction and withdrew her lockpicks, pulling the lid up and peering inside.

"Anything interesting?" Fearghal asked.

"Just more stock, I think. Maybe he valued these goods more highly and sought to keep them secure," Leliana told him with a shrug.

Fearghal rummaged through the chest. Some bolts of silk, a few fancy-looking jars and... Fearghal grinned and drew the leather boots out of the chest. "Zevran!" he called and threw the boots to the elf as he turned to look at him.

Zevran caught the boots and his eyes widened. He raised them to his face and inhaled deeply, then sighed with satisfaction. "Hmmmmmm. That smell! These are made from Antivan leather; I would know that smell anywhere."

"So, what are you waiting for? Try them on!" ordered Fearghal, grinning.

"But I have not finished admiring them, yet!" protested Zevran. He sniffed deeply at one boot and thrust the other into Fearghal's face. "Can you smell that? Like rotting flesh! Just like home."

Fearghal swatted the boot away and Zevran sat on the chest, pulling his worn boots off. They fitted reasonably well and he left them on. He grinned up at Fearghal.

"Thank you, my friend! Now if only you could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder and a corrupt politician, I'd really feel like I was home!"

Fearghal headed for the door. "Come on, let's go and see what the Revered Father has to say."


	39. Chapter 39

Haven's chantry stood a little apart from the village, at the side of a steep path which meandered up the mountainside. Zevran peered through one of the windows.

"It looks like the whole village is in there," he told them.

The odd sound of the Chant in a deep male voice could be heard faintly through the doors.

Fearghal pushed the door open and led his party inside. One or two people in the congregation turned to look at them, then looked back to the front.

"... we are blessed beyond measure; we are chosen by the Holy and Beloved to Her guardians."

A grey haired man stood at the front of the chantry, intoning solemnly. He looked up briefly as the newcomers, then carried on.

"This sacred duty is given to us alone; rejoice, my brethren, and prepare your hearts to receive her."

"That's new. I've never heard it before," murmured Alistair, frowning.

"It is not part of the Chant," agreed Leliana.

Fearghal marched down the aisle of the chantry. The man's eyes narrowed, then he continued.

"Lift up your voices, and despair not, for She will raise Her faithful servants to glory when Her... "

Fearghal strode right up to the revered father until he was standing almost nose to nose with him, forcing the man to acknowledge his presence.

"Ah... welcome. I heard we had a visitor wandering about the village. I trust you've enjoyed your time in Haven so far?"

Fearghal snorted. "You're going to pretend this village is _normal_?"

The revered father scowled at him. "We must protect Haven and our charges at all costs. We don't owe you any explanations. We have a sacred duty; failure to protect Her would be a greater sin. All will be forgiven."

Alistair felt a surge of magic flare around the man and yelled "Mage!" before gathering his will and letting loose a burst of energy that sent the man staggering back. As Fearghal and Alistair drew their swords, several heavily armed guards spilled from the vestry at the side of the chantry. The chantry erupted in chaos; women were screaming and children wailing in fear.

A freezing blast howled through the chantry and the charging guards were frozen in place. Fearghal and Alistair swung swords and shields, sending lumps of frozen flesh flying. Alistair turned at a warning shout from Zevran and saw the revered father start to gesture, his lips moving, then the man's eyes went wide as an arrow sprouted from his throat. Desperate hands clawed at his throat, then the mage crumpled.

Fearghal sheathed his sword and turned to the congregation. Women huddled against the chantry walls, clutching their children to them, eyes wide with fear. He half-turned, muttering, "Sheath your weapons." He turned back to the villagers, then frowned. He realised there were hardly any men in the chantry, other than those they had just killed. Two old men huddled amongst the women, one so ancient, he looked like he could hardly stand.

"We mean you no harm," Fearghal assured them. Wary, suspicious eyes looked back at him. "Come, sit back down."

Slowly, the villagers returned to their pews, their fearful eyes never leaving him.

"We are looking for a man called Brother Genitivi." Fearghal's voice turned cold. "We know he was heading here and we know that the men who came looking for him have been murdered."

Fearghal watched them carefully. A woman at the front flicked a nervous glance at the wall, then her eyes snapped back to Fearghal. He frowned as he realised that this chantry was laid out differently. Instead of the usual two side rooms, it only appeared to have one... or did it?

The congregation stared mutely up at Fearghal and he sighed. "Go back to your homes," he said, waving at the door.

"You're letting them go?" asked Morrigan.

"What do you suggest I do, Morrigan? Start torturing them? Anyway, I think I know where he is." Fearghal dragged his eyes away from the retreating villagers briefly to glare at her.

As the last villager departed Fearghal turned to Zevran and Leliana and grinned. "This chantry seems to be missing a room. Do you think you can find it?"

They grinned back at him and moved over to the wall, where there would usually be a doorway, and started running their hands over it.

Leliana gave a small cry of triumph and a section of the wall swung open.

"Zev, keep a watch outside. We don't know where the men are. I don't want to walk out of here to a welcoming committee. Take Bane with you," ordered Fearghal.

Inside the hidden room, a man lay on a narrow cot. Gaunt and hollow-eyed, the man was pale, his skin clammy; he raised himself on his elbows and eyed them nervously.

"They... they've sent you to finish it," he croaked.

"Brother Genitivi?" asked Fearghal.

"You... you're not one of them... thank the Maker!" The man sank onto the cot, his relief obvious.

Fearghal knelt by the cot, pulling his water skin from his belt. He raised Genitivi up and help him drink.

"Thank you," murmured Genitivi.

"You're sick?" asked Fearghal. He caught Morrigan's eye and beckoned her forward with a jerk of his head.

Genitivi chuckled weakly. "My captors haven't been genial hosts. I tried to escape a few days ago when they let me outside for some fresh air, but I slipped. I think my ankle's broken."

Morrigan pulled back the thin blanket that covered the man; one of his feet lay at a crazy angle.

Fearghal gulped at the sight.

"I can't feel my foot," Genitivi said, almost apologetically.

"We need to get the boot off," said Morrigan briskly.

Fearghal was relieved when Alistair knelt at the foot of the bed and started to unbuckle the boot. Although he removed it as carefully as he could, Genitivi groaned in pain as it came off.

"Sorry," mumbled Alistair.

Morrigan pulled the sock off, revealing Genitivi's foot. The foot was almost black and cold to the touch when she put her fingers against it.

Morrigan glanced up at Genitivi. "The ankle is dislocated as well as broken. I need to straighten it or the foot is lost. I will put you to sleep while we straighten it."

Genitivi stared at her uncertainly, then nodded. "As you will."

Morrigan gestured at him, murmuring and he slumped back against the cot. "Fearghal, I need you to hold his leg steady. Can somebody find something to use as a splint and some bandages, please?"

Fearghal shuffled down the cot and placed his hands on Genitivi's shin. Morrigan grasped the foot and twisted it sharply. With a crunch, then a pop it settled into place. Alistair and Leliana handed Morrigan bandages and some firewood to use as splints and she started to strap up the ankle.

"Are you all right, Fearghal?" asked Leliana.

"Yes, it's just... " Fearghal started to rise from the cot and crashed to the floor as the others stared at him.

Alistair dropped the bandages on the bed and crouched down at Fearghal's side. Fearghal was white as a sheet. Morrigan looked unconcerned and moved her hands over Genitivi's foot, blue magic flaring between them.

Alistair watched some of the colour return to Fearghal's face and saw his eyelids flicker.

"Fearghal. can you hear me?"

Fearghal's eyes opened and he blinked up at Alistair. "Wha-what happened?"

"Um... you passed out," Alistair told him trying not to smirk.

Morrigan smirked at Fearghal. "So... the mighty warrior is squeamish?"

Fearghal scowled up at him. "Not usually, it was just the noise... as you twisted... " He closed his eyes again, struggling to control the nausea that was rising again at the memory of the sound Genitivi's ankle had made.

Morrigan stood. "I've done all I can. I don't have Wynne's skill, but I don't think he'll lose the foot."

She gestured at Fearghal, sending a stream of rejuvenating magic flowing into him. Alistair helped Fearghal to his feet.

"Thanks," muttered Fearghal sheepishly as Morrigan brought Genitivi out of the sleep spell.

"How do you feel?" Fearghal asked Genitivi.

"It hurts," he replied, wincing, "but at least I can feel it now."

"I can make you some tea to help with that," Morrigan told him.

While Morrigan busied herself making some herbal tea for Genitivi, Fearghal and Alistair told him why they were there and how they had come to find him. He was distressed to hear of Arl Eamon's illness, but confident that the Ashes of Andraste could revive the arl. He explained that the ancient temple housing the ashes was higher up the mountain. Genitivi was puzzled as to why the villagers had kept him alive for so long and had begun to give up hope that he would ever be rescued. The revered Father, Eirik, had apparently taken great delight in tormenting Genitivi with the details of the knights who had come searching for him, of how they'd been killed. He told them of the 'key' that Eirik carried that would gain them entrance to the temple. Alistair hurried back into the main body of the chantry and searched the man's corpse.

"Is this it?" he asked, holding up an ornate pendant.

Genitivi nodded.

"That's a... strange-looking key," said Fearghal uncertainly.

"There are very few keys like this left in the world, but I have seen some," Genitivi told him. "I'll need to come with you. I doubt that you'll be able to open the way to the temple with it. There's a bit of a knack to it. It's hard to explain."

"You are not to walk on the foot; 'tis not nearly mended," scolded Morrigan, handing a steaming mug to Genitivi.

In the end, Fearghal and Alistair linked arms, forming a seat for Genitivi to sit on. Morrigan's tea had made the scholar sleepy and he lolled first against Fearghal, then against Alistair. Fortunately the path was broad, though steep. By the time they got to the top, however, they were both glad to put their burden down.

Fearghal supported Genitivi as he hopped to the great door set in the mountainside. The scholar slipped the medallion into a slot in the door, wiggling it slightly. He frowned, then smiled and pushed against the door which swung open silently. Fearghal held the excited Genitivi back.

" Zev... make sure there's no-one waiting for us inside please," he ordered.

Genitivi waited impatiently until Zevran returned.

"There is no sign of anyone inside," Zevran reported.

Fearghal helped Genitivi inside, then stopped, gaping. They were inside a huge hall. Ice and snow coated the floor and the massive columns supporting the roof. The whole interior sparkled, illuminated by a massive fire that burned brightly in the centre of the hall.

Genitivi's head swivelled this way and that, his eyes like saucers. "Maker's breath! What I would give to have seen this hall in all its splendour, as it was meant to be... " he murmured. "Still, sweep away the ice and snow, and traces of beauty remain."

Fearghal privately disagreed with him, feeling that the ice and snow rather enhanced the hall. He looked up. High above, holes in the vaulted ceiling were visible.

Fearghal pulled himself together. "We can't afford to linger."

Genitivi didn't seem to have heard him. Instead he was staring at a large frieze carved on the wall.

"These carvings were created just after Andraste's death; they may reveal things about her life that we do not yet know... " He looked at Fearghal. "I need more time to study these statues and carvings."

Fearghal considered him for a moment. "That might keep you out of trouble for a bit," he conceded.

Genitivi smiled at him. "I'd only slow you down. I don't think there are any villagers here. I should be quite safe."

"Two of us will stay with you, just in case." Fearghal looked over the group. He definitely wanted Alistair and Morrigan with him. He would have preferred to take Zevran with him too, but Leliana was looking at him with such hope in her eyes he felt it would be cruel to deprive her of the chance to visit Andraste's final resting place.

"Zev,... stay here with Bane and make sure that no further mishaps befall the good brother."

"And don't let him put any weight on that foot," ordered Morrigan sternly.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal, Alistair, Leliana and Morrigan swiftly crossed the rocky ground, staying as close to the big boulders as they could. Above them a great dragon soared, occasionally letting loose an ear-splitting cry that made their hair stand on end. They scurried through the doorway ahead of them, glad to be under cover once more. They rested for a few minutes as they had met stiff resistance on their way through the temple. It appeared that the villagers were part of some kind of dragon cult and believed that the creature roaming the skies outside was Andraste reborn. It had soon become clear where the missing men-folk of Haven were; they had fought with the fervour of fanatics and every battle had been a fight to the death.

Fearghal got to his feet. "Are you ready to continue?"

The others nodded and rose, following him down the long corridor. It opened out into a large open space. At the far end was a door, guarded by a lone figure clad in silverite armour.

Fearghal approached him warily, but the guard made no move for his weapon; instead, his gaze was benevolent and interested as he watched the party approach him.

"I bid you welcome, pilgrim. I am the Guardian, the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

Fearghal heard Leliana gasp behind him.

The guardian smiled at them. "I have waited years for this. It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting, I have been here, and I shall remain until my task is done."

"How do I get to the Urn?" asked Fearghal.

"You have come to honour Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy."

"I need the Ashes to cure a noble man. All of Ferelden may depend on him." Fearghal struggled to keep his impatience in check in the face of the stoic Guardian.

"Still, you must prove yourself worthy. It is not _my_ place to decide your worthiness. The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not..."

"The Gauntlet?" asked Fearghal uncertainly.

"The Gauntlet tells the true pilgrims from the false. You will undergo tests of faith, and we shall see how your soul fares."

"All right, let's get this over with."

"Before you go, there is something I must ask." The Guardian held up his hand, halting Fearghal who was about to move past him. "I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past; your suffering, and the suffering of others. You abandoned your father and mother, leaving them in the hands of Rendon Howe, knowing he would show no mercy. Do you think you failed your parents?"

The words struck Fearghal like blows. He struggled to get enough air to reply. He wanted to protest, to explain. _But it's true._

"Yes," he whispered. "I-I should have defended them to the death."

"Thank you. That is all I wished to know." The Guardian's voice was impassive, held no judgement.

"You are too hard on yourself, Fearghal. I know that you didn't get to make that choice. Duncan..." Alistair was interrupted by the Guardian.

"Alistair, knight and warden... you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don't you, if you should have died, and not him?"

"I... yes." Alistair hung his head. "If Duncan had been saved, not me, everything would be better. If I'd just had the chance, maybe..."

"You didn't get to make that choice either, Alistair." Fearghal's voice was hard but Alistair found himself grateful for the words.

"And you," The Guardian turned to Leliana. "Why do you say that the Maker speaks to you when all know that the maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself her equal?"

"I never said that! I... " she protested.

"In Orlais, you were someone; in Lothering, you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab sister and disappear. When your brothers and sisters of the cloister criticised you for what you professed you were hurt, but you also revelled in it. It made you special, you enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative. "

"You're saying that I made it up for... for the attention?" Leliana's indignation gave way to certainty. "I did not! I know what I believe."

"And you, Morrigan, Flemeth's daughter. What..."

"Begone, spirit! I will not play your games." Morrigan glared defiantly at the Guardian.

"I will respect your wishes." The Guardian turned to Fearghal. "The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek."

Fearghal led them through the door. They found themselves in a room full of ethereal figures, each with a riddle relating to Andraste. Fearghal allowed himself a small flare of hope. _We have a templar and a chantry sister. Maybe this won't be so difficult after all._


	40. Chapter 40

With the last of the riddles successfully answered, the door at the far end of the chamber swung open. A figure stood just beyond the threshold.

"Come on," said Alistair. "Let's go and find out what he wants."

As he drew closer, he took a good look at the man who stood waiting for them. The man was clearly middle-aged. He was a little shorter than Alistair and his stature suggested he had been a warrior in the past, although he was developing a bit of a paunch. He had the most striking eyes, deep blue and fringed with long, dark lashes. The stranger was staring past Alistair's shoulder, his face full of sorrow.

Puzzled, Alistair looked back. Fearghal was standing, rooted to the spot, his head shaking back and forth, his eyes wide and glassy as he stared at the man.

"Fearghal... " The man's voice was soft but carried through the large empty chamber.

"No. No!" Fearghal started backing away slowly.

"... my son... "

"No! You are... My father's _dead_!" Fearghal's voice was a howl of pain. He turned and bolted from the chamber, back the way they had come.

Alistair looked back towards the stranger and found the striking blue eyes now fixed on him. _Fearghal's eyes... they're the same._

"Please. Help my son," implored the man. "He is hurting so badly; he doesn't know what do to. He can't do this alone."

Alistair gulped. _What can_ _ **I**_ _do? Fearghal's never confided in me! I'm the last person to... maybe if Zevran was here, he could..._ He looked into the man's clear blue eyes and nodded.

Alistair glanced at the others. "Wait here," he told them, then turned and ran after Fearghal.

By the time Alistair caught up with him, Fearghal had made it all the way back outside. The bright sunlight dazzled Alistair for a moment. He squinted, trying to reduce the glare.

Fearghal was standing, with his back to Alistair, by a massive boulder near the entrance to the temple. He stood hunched over, his arms folded tightly across his chest, almost as if he was trying to hold himself up.

 _'Or hold something in,'_ thought Alistair, remembering doing the same when he'd learned of their losses at Ostagar. He hesitated; he had no idea how to approach Fearghal or what he might say.

A strangled howl erupted from Fearghal and he smashed his fist into the rock. Alistair winced and when he saw Fearghal draw back his arm again, Alistair ran towards him. Fearghal's fist hit the rock again and again before Alistair reached him; at each blow the howling grew louder.

"Fearghal, stop!" cried Alistair dragging him back.

"I-I can't do it, Alistair," sobbed Fearghal. "I-I can't f-face him!" Alistair dropped his hands as Fearghal stopped struggling.

"But he loves you," said Alistair.

Fearghal hung his head. "I have shamed him. Bennet was right; my father was an honourable man and I... I am not." The words were so soft and Fearghal's breathing so ragged, Alistair had to strain to make out what he was saying. "I've let him down. I-I let them all down!"

Fearghal sank to his knees, arms clasped tightly against his middle, almost doubled over. "It hurts so much," he gasped. "I don't know what to do with it."

Alistair knelt at the side of him and tentatively rested his hand on Fearghal's back. "I don't know," he admitted. He thought for a moment. "Maybe you just have to let it all out," he said, his face creased with concern. He felt totally out of his depth. For all their differences, he wanted to help; there was no mistaking the grief and pain that Fearghal was feeling.

Fearghal's body was racked with sobbing as he rocked back and forth.

"It... f-feels... too... b-big!" gasped Fearghal between sobs. "Every...t-time I...think of it... them... I-I..."

Alistair, acting purely on an instinct to comfort, leaned over Fearghal and slipped his arm around his shoulders. "Maybe you need to talk about it; what happened that night." Alistair felt Fearghal stiffen at the suggestion.

"We were betrayed... Howe's men... he said they were delayed, so Fergus left as planned with our m-men. I heard a s-scream..." Fearghal sagged against Alistair, weeping afresh. He clamped his gauntleted hand against his mouth as if trying to hold the words in, but they poured out of him in an unstoppable torrent.

"There were s-soldiers everywhere... Oriana's room and... Oren was dead... " Fearghal hunched over again, unable to continue for a moment. "... only five years old... and they'd... Oriana... raped her... "

Unthinkingly, Alistair patted Fearghal's shoulder as he struggled to make sense of the faltering story.

Fearghal's sobbing eased a little. "Mother... we started to fight our way out...w-we found some of the other women... rags stuffed in their mouths... couldn't scream..." Fearghal's breathing came in ragged gasps and he shut his eyes, trying to shut out the images. He suddenly lurched away from Alistair groaning, "Oh Maker, I think I'm going to be sick!"

Alistair watched helplessly as Fearghal, now on his hands and knees, retched and heaved violently but only succeeded in bringing up a thin stream of bile and phlegm. As the dry heaving slowed, Alistair fumbled at his belt for the small water skin fastened there and passed it over to Fearghal.

"Th-thanks." Fearghal shifted so that he was sitting and drank from the skin, his hands trembling so badly that much of the water ran down his beard. Wordlessly he handed the water skin back to Alistair and drew one of his knees up, hugging it. He rested his head on his knee, face turned towards Alistair but not looking at him. A little calmer, he resumed his story.

"There were fires starting all over the place. Everywhere we went, there were Howe's men. There were simply too many of them and they'd had the element of surprise," he explained, his voice tired, almost sleepy.

"We managed to get to the armoury. Mother insisted I take the family sword and shield; I think she didn't want Howe to get his hands on them. From there we made it to the hall; some of Howe's men had made it inside before Rory'd got the gates closed." Fearghal's voice hitched on Rory's name and he closed his eyes for a moment, struggling not to lose control again.

"We couldn't find Father anywhere. Rory said that he'd gone with Duncan to try and find us. That he'd said that we were to go to the servants' entrance off the kitchens; Howe didn't know about it." Tears welled in Fearghal's eyes again and he continued breathlessly, "M-Mother told... Rory to stay... to hold the gate for... as long as he could and... he did." Fearghal pulled both his knees up and rested his forehead on them, hiding his head under his arms, sobbing again.

Alistair squirmed, uncomfortable being a witness to such raw grief and unsure what to do. Awkwardly, he shuffled closer and put his arm around Fearghal's shoulders, as he had earlier; it had seemed to help, a little.

Fearghal's voice was muffled. "If only Duncan had arrived the day before... he would have tested Rory and they would have left with Fergus... Rory would have been safe."

Alistair briefly wondered how different things might have been if Duncan had brought Rory Gilmore to Ostagar; if it had been Rory Gilmore who had been plucked off the tower with him. If the only other surviving Warden had been someone eager to join the Wardens, how different would things have been since Ostagar? Then again, maybe Rory Gilmore wouldn't have survived his Joining and Alistair would have been left to do all this alone.

Fearghal slowly mastered himself again. He lowered his arms and lifted his head slightly. He sighed deeply. "We found Father on the floor in the larder. I don't know where Duncan was at that point." Fearghal's voice had steadied. "Father had been badly wounded; a belly wound. He was dying." He sniffed, trying to clear his nose. "Then Duncan joined us. Father begged him to help Mother and me escape; to take us to Ostagar with him so we could tell Fergus what had happened. Duncan said he would but..." Fearghal gulped, then continued, the words tumbling out in a rush, "onlyifIjoinedtheGreyWardens."

Alistair winced. Duncan had sometimes spoken of the hard decisions that had to be made as a Grey Warden. He could understand why Duncan had acted as he did, knew him well enough to know that he would have found it distasteful, but he felt a deep sympathy for Fearghal. He remembered Fearghal's fury at his Joining.

 _"You extracted a promise from my father as he lay_ _**dying** _ _! He thought he was_ _**saving** _ _me,"_

"And your father agreed," he said softly.

Fearghal nodded his head. "But I refused." He sighed wearily. "So Duncan conscripted me. Mother refused to leave." Fearghal's head dropped. "She wouldn't leave my Father. She said...she said..." He tried and failed to blink back tears that slowly rolled down his face. "... she'd b-buy us time." His voice cracked as he fought the sobs rising in him again. "I wouldn't have left them... I couldn't abandon them... but Duncan... "

"I know...he told me after your Joining. He said he'd knocked you out to get you away."

A wail of pure misery escaped Fearghal. Moved almost to tears himself by Fearghal's awful tale, Alistair pulled the sobbing man against him and held him as he wept.

Fearghal felt as if he would weep forever, but gradually it slowed. He slumped against Alistair for a moment, savouring the comfort of the other man's embrace; he felt exhausted and didn't want to move. Instead, he pulled away. Alistair let his arms drop and rummaged in the small pack at his waist, extracting a large handkerchief, which he held out to Fearghal.

"Thanks." Fearghal took the handkerchief and started pulling off his gauntlets. He winced as the right one came off. Although his fist had been protected by the armoured glove, his knuckles were bruised and bleeding. Fearghal wiped his face and blew his nose as best he could with his left hand.

Alistair pulled off his own gauntlets and delved in his pack again, drawing out a poultice and bandage. He motioned for Fearghal to hold out his battered hand and started smearing the poultice across the knuckles, studying Fearghal's hand as he did so. He realised that he'd never really noticed Fearghal's hands before. His own hands were large, but slim, the fingers long and tapering, but Fearghal's hands were broad and blunt, the fingers thick and stubby.

"Peasant's hands," said Fearghal.

Alistair blushed, embarrassed that he'd been so obvious. He glanced up at Fearghal warily, but Fearghal was looking at him with a small smile on his face.

"That's what my mother always used to say, anyway," said Fearghal with a shrug. "She had the same hands. Hands for _doing_ , she always said."

"You have your father's eyes," observed Alistair, winding the bandage around Fearghal's hand.

Fearghal nodded and looked back towards the doorway that led to the gauntlet. His face clouded. "Do you think... is that really... my father?"

Alistair handed Fearghal his discarded gauntlet. "I don't know. It's part of the test, I think."

"So," sighed Fearghal, "if I don't go in there and face it... him, then we fail." He pulled his gauntlets on and got to his feet. Reluctantly, he started towards the doorway. Alistair picked up his own gauntlets and followed him. Alistair could see Fearghal's determination grow as they neared the others. He walked a little faster, drew himself up a little straighter, pulled his shoulders back.

Fearghal ignored Leliana and Morrigan, keeping his eyes on the familiar figure at the far end of the chamber. Alistair stopped when he rejoined the others, allowing Fearghal to continue alone.

Leliana's eyes followed Fearghal. "Is he all right?" she asked softly. "Maybe we should... " she started to move after Fearghal when Alistair stopped her.

"I think he needs to do this alone. We should give him some privacy," Alistair told her.

Leliana looked as if she was going to argue, then nodded.

It took all Fearghal's will to keep one foot moving in front of the other as he approached his father.

"My dearest child... " Bryce's eyes were full of love as he looked at his younger son.

"F-Father?" Fearghal could barely breathe as he gazed at his father.

"You know that I am gone, that all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back." Bryce smiled sadly.

"I-I ... I'm so sorry! I should never have left you... " Fearghal felt tears spilling down his face, but made no attempt to stop them. "I-I've shamed you and d-dishonoured our name."

Bryce Cousland opened his arms and Fearghal stepped into them. "No more must you grieve, my boy. Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let it go. It is time. You have such a long road ahead of you, and you must be prepared." Bryce stepped back, holding Fearghal at arms' length, then he grasped Fearghal's hand and pressed something into it.

"I know that you will do great things. I'm so proud of you, my son." The figure of Bryce Cousland flickered and vanished, leaving Fearghal feeling bereft all over again.

Fearghal stared at his hand. A small amulet on a chain lay in it. It wasn't something he'd ever seen his father wear. It looked similar to the simple chantry amulets that were everywhere, although the symbol was slightly different, less stylised. He turned it over. The back was polished. He caught the reflection of his eyes in it and for a fleeting moment, thought he was looking at his father's face. He sighed and slipped the chain over his head, then turned and beckoned Alistair and the others forward.


	41. Chapter 41

Fearghal watched Alistair lead the others towards him, his brown eyes full of concern, his face full of questions. Fearghal nodded at him, trying to reassure him; strangely, he felt a kind of peace. Together they moved further into the Gauntlet. They drew their weapons as they glimpsed armed shadows flickering ahead. Fearghal gasped as he realised that the ethereal figures were facsimiles of _themselves_. For a brief moment he wondered if he should put away his weapon, and then the ghostly figures attacked.

Their attackers' bodies might have been ethereal, but their blows were solid enough. Fearghal barely got his shield up in time as his spectral other self charged at him, screaming with rage. Alistair made a beeline for Morrigan's double, releasing a flash of blinding light as he did so. He ran the figure through as it staggered, then wheeled around and ran towards his own double, who was heading towards the real Morrigan with a grim determination. Alistair watched as his other self froze mid-stride and was shattered by a huge boulder that descended on it; he couldn't help but wince. He changed direction and charged Leliana's double, who had Fearghal in her sights. Moments later it was all over.

"You killed me!" said Alistair indignantly, glaring at Morrigan.

The witch merely raised an eyebrow, then smirked. "You killed me first."

"Hey, I did, didn't I?" said Alistair, grinning broadly.

"There is no need to look so pleased about it, templar," retorted Morrigan, scowling.

Fearghal grunted. "And just when she was beginning to like you."

Alistair looked astonished. "You do?" he asked Morrigan.

"No," she replied tartly.

"That's a relief," muttered Alistair.

Shaking his head, Fearghal led them past the corpses and they emerged into a large hall. Immediately in front of the door was a dusty stone altar. Beyond the altar a barrier of flame traversed the hall. Fearghal scraped away the dust of centuries and read out the inscription.

' _Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight._ '

"Now what?" asked Fearghal.

"I think that we must undress and step through the fire," said Leliana.

"What?" squeaked Alistair. " _All_ of us?"

Fearghal rolled his eyes. "All of us. Unless you're offering to go first and we'll see what happens?"

"Er... ladies first?" suggested Alistair hopefully.

"Just get undressed, Alistair," snapped Morrigan, tugging her boots off.

Fearghal pulled his gauntlets off and dropped them on the floor, then started undoing the buckles of his armour. He sidled up to Alistair. "Look at it this way... how long have you been waiting for a woman to say that to you?" he murmured, smirking.

"That's not helping," growled Alistair, keeping his head down as he divested himself of his armour and the padded clothes he wore underneath. Eventually he was down to his small clothes. Staring down at the floor he saw Fearghal's small clothes drop on top of his clothes and steeling himself, he removed his own and let them fall to the floor.

He saw Fearghal's feet move towards the fire and looked up, watching the muscular body step through the flames. The flames shimmered and flared, then Fearghal disappeared from sight. Determined not to look left or right, Alistair followed him. Leliana and Morrigan were a heartbeat behind him.

Fearghal eyed the flames before him, took a deep breath and stepped forwards before he could admit to himself just how nervous he was. He could hear his father telling him ' _Lead by example, pup. Never ask anyone to do something you're not prepared to do yourself._ ' Light flared around him and Fearghal tensed at the intense heat, only to relax a moment later as he realised that the fire wasn't actually burning him. Bathed in flame, he stood for a few moments, savouring the heat, feeling at peace, almost sleepy.

The flames disappeared and the Guardian appeared in front of them.

"You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet; you have walked the path of Andraste and, like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrims. Approach the Sacred Ashes."

Fearghal realised that he did indeed feel clean. In the intense cold, washing had been cursory at best, yet the accumulated sweat and grime had disappeared.

Quickly, they dressed and made their way to the far end of the hall. A stone staircase rose up in front of them. Solemnly, they trooped up it. At the top was a statue of Andraste, a large alabaster urn at its foot.

"I didn't think anyone could succeed in finding Andraste's final resting place, but here... here She is," murmured Alistair.

"I never dreamed I would ever lay my eyes on the Urn of Sacred Ashes... I... I have no words to express... " Leliana stumbled to a halt, lost for words.

Even Morrigan was impressed. "Powerful magic, indeed," she mused.

His hands shaking, Fearghal removed the lid of the Urn. He pulled a small pouch from his pack and took a pinch of the ashes, sprinkling them carefully into the pouch, making sure to dust his fingers off. He tucked the pouch away then replaced the lid on the Urn. Fearghal stared up at the statue for a moment, then turned.

"Come on, let's get back to the others."

~o~O~o~

Alistair mopped up his gravy with a large chunk of bread, watching Fearghal carefully. The stresses of the day had caught up with Fearghal as they made their way down to where Genitivi and Zevran waited. His face had closed, his shoulders hunched; he had barely raised a half-hearted smile at his hound's effusive welcome. The scholar had been full of questions about the Urn which Fearghal had barely acknowledged, leaving it to Alistair to describe what they had seen.

Although it was growing dark, Fearghal had insisted on leaving the temple precincts. Zevran had led the way down the path, torch held high to illuminate the way as best as he could. Alistair wasn't ashamed to admit he was extremely nervous as he followed cautiously in Zevran's wake, his hand grasping Fearghal's arm as they bore Genitivi back down the mountain.

When they arrived back in the village there wasn't a villager to be seen, although most of the houses showed flickering lamp light leeching out of cracks in barred shutters. They decided to camp in a meadow behind the shop and Morrigan was busy setting wards before the tents were even up. Fearghal sent Zevran into the village to see if he could retrieve Sten's pack.

When Zevran returned with the pack, Fearghal eyed it warily, then grunted, "Set his tent up. Brother Genitivi can sleep in it."

Leliana had got a fire going and started cooking while Alistair, Zevran and Fearghal busied themselves erecting tents.

Genitivi eyed the tent that had been set up for him, then asked hesitantly, "One of your party was killed by the villagers?" He shuffled uncomfortably at the sudden tension in the air.

"No. I killed him," Fearghal informed him tersely.

Genitivi's eyes went wide and he swallowed nervously, wary of this mercurial Grey Warden.

"Sten was a Qunari," Leliana said quietly, trying to fill the awkward silence. "He didn't agree with... he attacked Fearghal." She sighed heavily.

Genitivi's alarm gave way to curiosity. "A Qunari! Oh, I wish I could have met him."

Fearghal gave him a disgusted look, then threw his empty bowl down and disappeared into his tent.

Alistair hesitated for a moment, then followed him.

Fearghal was laid on his bedroll, one arm flung across his face.

"Are you all right?" asked Alistair.

"I'm fine," ground out Fearghal.

Alistair sat down on his bedroll and started pulling off his boots. "Fine? Sten attacked you this morning, then we had to fight our way through the temple, then you had to confront the spirit of your father. Of course, why wouldn't you be fine?"

Fearghal sat up. "What do you want from me?" he hissed.

"I want you to stop pretending everything's 'fine' when it clearly isn't," growled Alistair, trying to keep his voice down.

"Is this about Sten? You were there, you saw it. He gave me no choice!"

"I know he didn't," agreed Alistair. "I think you did the only thing you could have done... I'm just not sure _you_ believe it."

Fearghal sighed. "What's one more death? There have been so many," he said bitterly. "I have so much blood on my hands, Sten's hardly makes a difference."

"His blood is _not_ on your hands!" protested Alistair. "He brought his death upon himself. If he felt so strongly that we were taking the wrong course, he should have said something."

Fearghal snorted. "Why would he? It's not like I went out of my way to get to know him. If I'm honest, he repelled me. Every time I looked at him I couldn't help thinking about what he'd done." He looked at Alistair expectantly.

"What?" asked Alistair.

"This is where you get to say ' _I told you so_ '," said Fearghal.

"Yeah, that would be useful," drawled Alistair. "Anyway, it's not that you were necessarily wrong; he could have been very useful, it's just... "

"Just?" Fearghal's eyebrows rose.

Alistair watched him warily. "Well, I got the impression that you freed him, mainly to get at me."

"Well, ... Oh, what's the use? I've been told I'm stubborn and bloody-minded so many times over the years, it's a wonder I don't recite it in my sleep." Fearghal had the grace to look embarrassed. "You're right, I recruited him for all the wrong reasons. Having done that, I should still have handled him better, though."

"Look at it this way, in Lothering he faced death in a cage, overcome by darkspawn. At least he died fighting. I think he'd have preferred it," said Alistair.

Fearghal stared at him, then sniggered. "Is this your way of trying to cheer me up?"

Alistair shrugged. "I do my best," he said, with a little grin.

Fearghal spluttered with laughter. "Oh, Maker! I shouldn't laugh! Poor Sten... it's really not funny..."

Alistair watched, bemused, then was horrified to see Fearghal's laughter transform into tears. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to... "

Fearghal hid his face in his hands. "It's not you... it's... " He wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I've been trying so hard not to give in to it but since... up there," Fearghal jerked his head in the direction of the mountain and the temple, "it's as if I can't put it away again."

"' _Not give in to it_ '?" repeated Alistair, incredulously. "You make it sound like... it's self indulgent. Maker's breath, Fearghal!"

"It _is_ ," insisted Fearghal. "First it was all about getting to Ostagar. I needed to find Fergus and tell him, then when we arrived, he wasn't there and there was the Joining, then the battle and... We have too much to _do_ , Alistair."

"Yes, and pretending it didn't happen has worked so well for you, hasn't it?" demanded Alistair.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" yelled Fearghal. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, struggling with his temper. "I f-feel so... overwhelmed by it. I can't afford to fall apart again."

"I don't think we can afford for you not to," said Alistair quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're bad-tempered, exhausted, sometimes irrational and just generally impossible," snapped Alistair. "It means that it rubs off on everyone else; it means that when you wake up screaming and yelling, it disturbs everyone's sleep... and don't tell me it's darkspawn nightmares because I know it isn't. It means that you have to start facing it." Alistair stopped, astonished with himself.

Fearghal stared at Alistair. His father's words in the Gauntlet came back to him. ' _Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let it go._ '

"You're not on your own," said Alistair. "I'll help in any way I can. If you want to talk, I'll listen. If you need to be alone, I'll share with Zevran; I know you've been desperate for your own tent."

"I don't think I could bear to be on my own at the moment," Fearghal confessed.

"Fair enough. Why don't you try and get some sleep? I'll organise the watches," offered Alistair.

It was a testament to just how exhausted Fearghal was that he merely nodded, curling up under his blanket as Alistair left the tent.

~o~O~o~

Alistair was relieved when Morrigan turned down his offer to pull a double watch, saying that she was happy to take her watch alone. Zevran said he would take his watch with Bane; even when asleep, the big hound always had an ear open. That left him to take his watch with Leliana, as usual.

The bard was unusually quiet and Alistair found himself missing her usual chattering.

"Is everything all right, Leliana?" he asked, seating himself on the log placed by the fire.

She sat down next to him. "It has been such a strange day. I think I am still trying to make some sense of it. First, there was Sten, then fighting our way through the temple, then finding the Urn. A curious mixture of barbarity and... I don't know quite how to express it. Seeing the Urn of Sacred Ashes was such a profoundly moving experience... it seems such a contrast to... all that had gone before."

"You're upset about Sten?" asked Alistair.

"It was such a shock," she admitted, "and it... it made me think of Marjolaine."

"Why?" asked Alistair, confused.

"It was what Fearghal said after. He accused Sten of insubordination. That is what Marjolaine said of me... how she justified betraying me."

"Oh, it's not the same, Leliana," protested Alistair. "Sten truly was in the wrong. Not for disagreeing with Fearghal, but the way he did it; he really didn't leave Fearghal any choice. Whereas Marjolaine, it sounds like she was trying to justify what she did. You were trying to protect her and she betrayed you, it's not the same thing at all." A thought occurred to Alistair. "You're not worried that Fearghal would... ?"

"I do not know, Alistair. A part of me thinks not but... he is so angry sometimes. He carries so much locked up inside of him; he is like... _un volcan_ , some little thing triggers it and it erupts."

Alistair sighed. "I don't know what to say, Leliana, except that I truly believe that even at his worst I don't believe Fearghal would kill you or any of us merely for disagreeing with him. He might shout and rage, yes, but he only killed Sten because Sten was trying to kill _him_."

Leliana nodded her head. "You are probably right. Ignore me, I am being foolish." She looked around at the tent where Fearghal slept. "Who was that man we saw in the Gauntlet?"

"That was Fearghal's father."

"Ah, of course. I should have seen it, they have the same eyes. I think the Gauntlet was a bigger ordeal for him than for any of us. Still, maybe better for him in the long run, yes? If he can make peace with his past."

"I hope so, Leliana," Alistair agreed fervently.


	42. Chapter 42

Alistair looked down at the sleeping Fearghal. It seemed a shame to wake him, but the sooner they left Haven, the better. He nudged Fearghal's leg with his foot. "Fearghal, I've brought some tea," he said softly.

Fearghal slowly opened his eyes, blinking at Alistair stupidly. "Tea? Is it time for my watch yet?"

"It's morning. Time to get up," Alistair told him, holding out the mug.

Fearghal sat up, frowning and reaching up for the mug. "Thanks. You let me sleep all night," he accused Alistair.

Alistair merely nodded cheerfully and turned. "Breakfast will be ten minutes."

Fearghal scowled as he sipped his tea; he felt like he was being _coddled_ and he didn't like it, or rather he didn't like what it implied. _Maker's cock! Does he think I'm not capable to even stand my watch?"_ Fearghal set his tea carefully down on Alistair's bedroll and reached for his padded underclothes, then his armour. When he was done, his tea had cooled and he gulped it down and went outside.

"Look who's turned up, Fearghal," said Leliana, pushing a bowl of porridge at him.

Fearghal looked round and was surprised to see the dwarven merchant they'd originally met outside Lothering. They'd met the man and his son a few times since; he'd always dealt with them very fairly. "Master... Feddic, yes?"

"That's right, ser. Bodahn Feddic, that's me. I'd thought to maybe do a little business up here, they can't get many travellers up this way, but your companions tell me that the locals are not very friendly."

"Indeed," agreed Fearghal. "You might be just the person we need though. Tell me, did you bring your cart?"

"That I did, ser, although there's not as much in it as I'd like."

"Excellent!" Fearghal beamed at the dwarf. He gestured at Brother Genitivi. "The good Brother has a broken ankle. Could we prevail upon you to take him to Redcliffe? We'd make it worth your while, of course."

"I'm sure we can come to an amicable arrangement, ser. Let's settle ourselves and talk terms."

Fearghal and Feddic seated themselves by the fire. The dwarf merchant drove a hard bargain, especially considering that the only place for him to go was back down through the hills to Redcliffe, but Fearghal didn't want to be slowed down by Genitivi; they needed to get the Ashes back to Redcliffe as soon as possible.

While he was negotiating with the dwarf, between mouthfuls of porridge, the others broke up the camp. Morrigan busied herself applying more healing to Genitivi's ankle; it wasn't mended, that was beyond her skill, but it was reasonably stable and should heal well as long as he kept off it. Within the hour, they were ready to leave.

~o~O~o~

They were two days out of Haven when the snow started to fall. Zevran eyed the white flakes with disgust as he pulled an oiled cape out of his pack and put it on. Leliana and Morrigan followed suit and Fearghal picked up the pace, hoping to outrun the lowering snow clouds and reach lower ground. As the snow came down faster and faster, the Antivan kept up a litany of complaint about the freezing white stuff blowing in his face.

"Where's your sense of humour gone, Zev. We used to love snow when we were kids; it was always such fun. I remember Fergus being furious when I used his new shield as a sledge," laughed Fearghal.

Zevran turned round and glared at him. "I fail to see how one could have fun in something that is so cold."

As he turned back to the front, Fearghal nudged Alistair and started scooping up snow, pressing it into a ball. Grinning, Alistair followed suit.

"Er... Zevran... " called Fearghal.

As Zevran turned again, he was hit square in the face by two snowballs. Fearghal and Alistair burst out laughing while Zevran glared at them. "Dear Wynne is right. You are like two children," he informed them with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Can you really use a shield as a sledge?" asked Alistair, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Well, I was only nine at the time. I suspect we'd need bigger shields," said Fearghal, grinning.

Alistair looked disappointed, but peered over the edge of the path speculatively.

"Don't even think about it, fool templar! I am not going to mend your broken legs. Although I suspect if you break your head no-one will be able to tell the difference," said Morrigan waspishly, without even turning around.

Alistair pulled a face behind her back. "How does she do that?" he muttered.

Fearghal shrugged. "Women! They have eyes in the back of their heads." He peered over the slope. "It's too steep here, anyway; maybe when we get lower down."

As they descended, the wind picked up and the snow started to come down even faster. Fearghal looked up at the sky, concerned.

"I think we need to start looking for somewhere to camp. This looks like it's going to get worse before it gets better."

They managed to find some level ground amongst the trees and got their tents up as swiftly as possible.

~o~O~o~

Alistair's eyes flew open, the piercing scream of the Archdemon still ringing in his ears. He lay still, taking slow, deep breaths, felt his racing heart slow. He turned his head towards Fearghal in the dark; if he was dreaming of the Archdemon, Fearghal probably was too. They often awoke from the darkspawn nightmares at about the same time. There was no sound from Fearghal, none of the laboured breathing that usually signalled his tormented dreaming. In fact, there wasn't even the quiet, rhythmic breathing that indicated a more peaceful sleep.

"Are you awake, Fearghal?" he asked softly, not wanting to wake the other man if he truly was sleeping peacefully.

Alistair heard Fearghal sniff and clear his throat.

"Yeah, I'm awake. Nightmare?" Fearghal's voice was thick and husky. "I heard you thrashing about; I wasn't sure whether to wake you or not."

"That's okay. You know, by the time we finally meet the Archdemon, it'll feel like meeting an old friend."

Fearghal gave a soft snort of laughter. "You can invite it round for tea."

Alistair sniggered at the unexpected image of the huge Archdemon daintily holding a china teacup. "What about you? You dreamed of it too?"

"I... no," sighed Fearghal. "I've been awake for a while."

"Are you all right?" asked Alistair hesitantly.

"I was dreaming about my mother."

"Oh, sorry," mumbled Alistair. "Is she who you have nightmares about?"

Alistair heard Fearghal turn over, could feel warm breath on his face as Fearghal sighed heavily; he hadn't realised Fearghal was so close.

"It kills me that the b-best I can hope for is that Howe gave her a quick d-death." Fearghal stopped, fighting to hold back tears. "I saw what Howe's m-men d-did to Oriana, to th-the other women... She wouldn't leave; she told D-Duncan that she would s-slow us d-down... " Fearghal stopped, gasping for breath; trying to say the words hurt so much. An anguished sob broke free as he remembered his mother crouched beside his father, a look of fierce determination on her face.

Alistair tentatively stretched out his hand, rubbing Fearghal's shoulder. It felt like such a futile gesture in the face of so much pain, but he didn't know what else to do. He remembered the way he'd held Fearghal up on the mountain, how Fearghal had been able to give in to his misery. Alistair was uncomfortable with such physical intimacy, even if it was innocent, and, given his feelings for Fearghal, he wasn't so sure it _was_ , but he couldn't just listen to the other man suffering so and do nothing.

He edged closer to Fearghal, pulling him into a hug. "Stop trying to hold it all in," he whispered.

Fearghal felt something in him give way as he was pulled into Alistair's arms; it was impossible, unnecessary somehow, to keep in the pain and the grief and the fear. He laid his head against the broad shoulder, acknowledged the comfort of the strong arms enfolding him, and set his tears free. The intensity, the sheer enormity, of his grief scared Fearghal, yet at the same time he was sustained by the embrace. For the first time since that night at Castle Cousland, he felt safe. There was almost a dream-like quality to lying cradled against Alistair, weeping.

Alistair murmured quietly, the words meaningless, their sympathy not. Of their own accord, his hands stroked Fearghal's back, feeling the tension leaching out of the man in his arms. As Fearghal relaxed against him, Alistair felt some of his own apprehension dissipate. He felt a certain frisson at holding Fearghal in his arms, but beyond that he realised that he'd never held anyone like this, or been held. It was a sobering thought. He pushed aside thoughts about his feelings for Fearghal and just savoured the embrace.

Eventually, Fearghal's weeping subsided. Alistair felt Fearghal move against him.

"I... thank you." Fearghal's voice was so soft, Alistair could barely make out the words.

Alistair expected Fearghal to pull away, but he didn't, seemingly content to rest against Alistair.

"If you want to talk about her... " offered Alistair. He felt Fearghal tense.

"I don't want to remember her like that," he mumbled.

"Then don't," shrugged Alistair. "Remember her as she was. Tell me what she was like."

Fearghal was quiet for a moment. He relaxed against Alistair, remembering his mother. "She could be a bit of a battleaxe. She met my father during the rebellion, _fighting_ in the rebellion."

"What? Your _mother_ fought in the rebellion?" Alistair had come across women warriors before, but they weren't nearly as common as men, especially amongst the nobility.

"Oh, yes. She could be so fierce sometimes; nothing seemed to frighten her. With a bow, she could probably have given Leliana a run for her money; certainly, in her prime she could have done." Alistair could hear the pride in Fearghal's voice. "She could be very intimidating; she had little patience with pomp and ceremony, and didn't suffer fools gladly."

Unthinkingly, Fearghal shuffled slightly, settling himself more comfortably against Alistair. "We clashed a lot. She could be _so_ stubborn." Fearghal sighed sadly. "It seems so stupid now; such a waste. I found my father much easier to get along with. Once Mother made her mind up about something, there was no reasoning with her."

Alistair couldn't stop a small huff of laughter.

"Oh, don't!" groaned Fearghal. "You have no idea how many times I went to my father, complaining about her latest _edict_ , only for him to say, ' _You're just like her, you know._ ', like that explained everything!"

Fearghal chuckled softly. "You must think she sounds awful! She felt very strongly that privilege was a responsibility; that it carried obligations. She was always busy; organising all sorts of things. She always knew who was struggling, where help was needed. She was very good at it and she enjoyed it too, but... sometimes I think she'd have been just as happy working a smallholding somewhere. She loved to garden and resented anything that took her away from her roses.

It was an escape for her, I think. I remember Father telling me that the groundsman they used to have, before I was born, was scandalised to find to find her digging her own rosebeds. She was out there, in her garden, at every opportunity. I can remember trailing around after her, poking about in the dirt, when I tiny. Thankfully, she wasn't one of those fussy mothers; she never minded how filthy I got." His voice took on a wistful note. "Leliana told me that her mother used to smell of Andraste's Grace; mine used to smell of roses."

Fearghal felt a flash of disappointment as Alistair pulled away suddenly and sat up. "What's the matter?" he asked, confused.

"Just give me a minute," muttered Alistair. He crawled down his bedroll and grabbed his pack, rooting through it. The sky was just starting to lighten, but it was still gloomy inside the tent. Finally his hand lighted on the item he sought and he pulled it out, turning back to Fearghal.

"Here," he said, thrusting it at Fearghal.

Frowning, Fearghal took the small box that Alistair held out to him. He opened it and gasped at the smell that wafted up. _Roses!_ The aroma was delicate, but so evocative, Fearghal almost cried out. He shuffled to the front of the tent and undid the ties, to admit a little more light. Inside the box was a perfect red rose, the petals thick and velvety. Fearghal ran a finger over the petals, then lifted the box closer to his face, inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes; it was almost as if his mother was in the drab tent with them. He could hardly believe that if he reached out his hand, he wouldn't touch her; any moment now, he would hear her say ' _Oh, Fearghal!_ ' in that way she always did, a mixture of exasperation and amusement in her voice. The smell transported him to summer days in Highever, when he would sometimes wander her garden, the air heady with the scent of roses.

"Where...where did you get this?" asked Fearghal, his voice thick with fresh tears.

"Lothering. I remember thinking, ' _How could something so beautiful exist in a place filled with so much despair and ugliness?_ ' I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The thought that the darkspawn would come and their taint would destroy it was just... " he shrugged. "I was worried that it would start to fade, so I asked that dwarf to enchant it for me; you know, the merchant's son, the simple one."

Fearghal nodded. Reluctantly, he closed the lid and tried to hand it back to Alistair. Alistair pushed it back at him.

"Oh, no! I mean, keep it," protested Alistair. His hand wandered up to his neck and he fingered the amulet that Fearghal had found and given to him. He saw Fearghal hesitate. "Please, keep it. That's why I fetched it out; I want you to have it."

"I don't know what to say. Thank you." Fearghal rubbed his hand over his face, determined not to start crying again. Instead, he leaned towards Alistair and caught him up in a hug.

Caught by surprise, Alistair froze for a second, then relaxed and hugged Fearghal back. After a moment, Fearghal released him and moved to put the box in his pack. Alistair reached for his armour and started to buckle it in place.

~o~O~o~

As they descended the snow gave way to rain. Fearghal trudged along the muddy path, Bane prancing at his side. _Damned hound's completely oblivious to the weather!_ Fearghal scowled, feeling the rain drip down the back of his neck. He knew that the padded jerkin he wore under his armour would be damp tonight and he would face the usual dilemma of either sleeping in damp clothes, or taking it off and losing the extra warmth it provided. His cheeks felt cold, almost numb. He was glad he hadn't shaved at all since the morning before they'd arrived at Haven. At least half of his face was reasonably warm.

He snuck a sideways glance at Alistair who plodded alongside him, equally as uncomfortable and unusually subdued. Alistair had also stopped shaving and brown fuzz covered the lower half of his face. Fearghal grinned at how unexpectedly scruffy Alistair looked. He'd given up trimming his hair weeks ago and it almost touched his collar. The beard on his face was a shade darker than his hair, but still had a touch of gold in it. Fearghal had to admit that he found Alistair's scruffiness strangely appealing. He frowned.

Alistair stared into the distance, almost oblivious to his companion. When he'd held Fearghal, it had genuinely been out of a desire to comfort him; he hadn't allowed any other thoughts to intrude. On the road, though, his mind kept wandering; remembering how good it had felt to hold Fearghal, how _right_. He couldn't help but imagine holding Fearghal close and, instead of comforting him, kissing him. A part of him was flattered that Fearghal trusted him enough to let him comfort him, but it made it so _difficult_. _I want him!_ The thought was both shocking, yet there was a sense of relief to finally admitting it to himself. _Maker's breath, what a mess! What the hell am I going to do?_


	43. Chapter 43

They crested the hill and stood, looking down on Redcliffe. It was a beautiful day, although cold, and the waters of Lake Calenhad glittered under the sun. For a brief moment, it was almost possible to believe that there was no Blight, no civil war.

Fearghal grinned at the others. "Come on. It's going to be getting dark soon." He set off down the hill, almost running.

As they crossed the bridge to Redcliffe Castle, they saw Teagan some running down the steps and across the courtyard. Teagan stopped in front of Fearghal, his expression a mixture of surprise and hope.

"Fearghal! We thought you'd be at least another week! Did you... " Teagan was suddenly afraid to ask.

Fearghal grinned broadly and reached into the pouch he wore at his waist. He pulled out a small drawstring bag and held it out to Teagan.

"Thank the Maker!" breathed Teagan. He turned and ran back across the courtyard. "Wynne! Wynne!"

Wynne stood at the top of the steps. As he reached her, he pressed the bag into her hand and they both disappeared into the castle.

Ser Perth appeared beside Fearghal, his face alight. "You really found them, the sacred Ashes of Andraste?"

"We did," said Fearghal. "How is the arl?"

Perth's face fell. "Not good, Warden. He's fading fast. The mage has been with him constantly for the last few days; his life hangs by a thread. Bann Teagan didn't expect you back for another week and, well, I don't think Arl Eamon would have lasted another week."

"We were lucky; we made good time. Thank the maker it was mostly downhill on the way back, we gained a day," Fearghal told him.

"Forgive me, you must all be exhausted. Come, I'll organise some food. Things are still at sixes and sevens; our seneschal, Powell, was killed by those vile creatures."

Perth led them across the courtyard and into the castle. Once inside, he directed them to Teagan's sitting room and disappeared.

~o~O~o~

Alistair shot out a hand and grabbed the last pork pie as Fearghal started to move towards it.

"Bastard!" grumbled Fearghal good-naturedly.

"Absolutely!" mumbled Alistair, his mouth full.

Fearghal stood as the door opened and Teagan stepped into the room. Teagan's eyes were full of tears but he was smiling.

"He... he's awake. He's weak... b-but W-Wynne says that with rest and c-care, he should be fine." Teagan looked around the room, taking them all in. "I d-don't know how to thank you all... " He stopped, his voice cracking.

"That's wonderful news, Teagan," said Fearghal, adding softly, "There's been enough death."

Teagan offered his hand to Fearghal, who took it, clasping the other man's wrist. He was surprised when Teagan pulled him into a hug. Teagan released Fearghal and turned to Alistair and hugged him too.

Teagan pulled himself together. "I've had rooms prepared for you and baths drawn." He wrinkled his nose at Alistair and they all burst out laughing.

"Hey! It was snowing up there!" protested Alistair.

Teagan grinned at him. "I've put you all in the same rooms you were in on your first visit."

Fearghal nodded, picked up his pack, suddenly invigorated by the prospect of a hot bath. As the others moved to follow him, Teagan caught Alistair's eye and Alistair hung back.

Teagan looked at Alistair and smiled. "You and Fearghal look like a pair of grizzly bears with those beards."

"It _was_ cold up there," Alistair told him. "We're off to Orzammar next so I think I'll keep it for a while."

"Quite," agreed Teagan, nodding. He closed the door and gestured for Alistair to take a seat. "Fearghal looks much better than he did when you left. He's doing better?"

"He picked up a bit on the trip out to Haven. He practically force marched us there. I think he was so exhausted at night all he could do was sleep. Well, I know _I_ found the pace hard. I slept so soundly, I barely dreamed at all."

"And that's all?" Teagan's eyebrows rose in surprise.

Alistair shook his head. "In the temple where we found the Urn, there were tests. One of them was... Fearghal's father. I don't know if it was a ghost, a spirit of some kind maybe, but... well, he went to pieces."

Alistair related what had happened, saw the sympathy in Teagan's face. "At least now, he's starting to talk about it. He was telling me a little about his mother. She sounds as if she was quite formidable."

"Oh, she was!" agreed Teagan, chuckling. "Fearghal's very like her. Not to look at, he favours his father more, but in his personality." Teagan paused. "Did he say what happened to her?"

"She refused to leave with Duncan. Said she'd slow them down. The Teyrn was mortally injured and she stayed with him. It's tearing him apart not knowing what happened to her. I think he's afraid that Howe has her prisoner somewhere. He said that the women they found had been... raped."

"Oh, Maker! Poor Fearghal," sighed Teagan. "At least he's talking about it, that's something." He looked across at Alistair. "And how about you; how are you doing?"

"Me? I'm fine." Alistair was startled by the question.

Teagan gave him a knowing look. "Fearghal isn't the only person who's grieving. After what happened at Ostagar... "

"Really, I'm fine," muttered Alistair.

"Just don't push your own feelings aside because you're looking out for Fearghal." Teagan stood up. "I shouldn't keep you, your bath will be getting cold."

Alistair nodded and made his way upstairs.

~o~O~o~

Alistair made his way along the corridor and knocked at Fearghal's door. His heart missed a beat when Fearghal threw the door open, clad in only a pair of breeches. He cleared his throat, trying to gather his thoughts, then realised that Fearghal looked irritated.

"Sorry, bad time?"

"What? No." Fearghal's face cleared and he grinned sheepishly. "I haven't got a clean shirt."

"I'll go and see if I can borrow a shirt off Teagan. I'll be back shortly." Alistair went in search of Teagan, who was only too happy to provide a shirt and promised to send a maid round to collect up their laundry.

A few minutes later, he was back at Fearghal's door. He knocked and opened the door. Fearghal was standing at the window but turned as Alistair entered. He grinned at the sight of the shirt in Alistair's hands. Alistair felt a twinge of disappointment as Fearghal tugged the shirt on and tucked it in.

"So, we're off to Orzammar next?" asked Alistair.

"I think so. I'd rather get up there and back before the winter sets in. I reckon we have about a month, maybe a little more, before the worst of snow begins. Unless you have any other ideas?" Fearghal looked at Alistair expectantly.

"No, that sounds reasonable. So how... "

Fearghal sighed in frustration at another knock at the door. He flung it open to reveal a startled looking maid.

"Beg pardon, ser; Bann Teagan asked me to collect your laundry."

Fearghal collected up his discarded clothes and rummaged in his pack, producing another shirt, some small clothes and three socks. He bundled it all up and handed it to the maid.

"Would you be able to rustle us some tea and a snack?"

"Of course, ser." The maid bobbed a curtsey and turned to Alistair.

"My laundry's already bundled up, just inside the door."

The maid curtsied to him and left the room. Fearghal watched the door close behind then rushed to the door and called after her, "Make that mugs of tea, please." He glanced back at Alistair. "I hate fumbling with those little china cups they always bring."

Fearghal hopped up and say on the bed, sitting cross-legged and gestured for Alistair to take the only chair in the room.

"Wynne popped by earlier. She said although it will take a little time for the arl to get his strength back, he should be up and about in a day or two."

"That's good." Alistair hesitated. "Has he been told... "

"That I let a blood mage sacrifice his wife? Apparently she was the first person he asked for, so they had to tell him." Fearghal's face was guarded as he glanced at Alistair. "Are you still worried about that?"

Alistair sighed. "For what it's worth, I thought a lot about what you said. If we weren't telling him his wife was dead, we'd be telling him his son was."

"Well, yes, but that wasn't what... " A knock at the door interrupted Fearghal and he sprang off the bed to open it, taking the tray from the maid. He plonked the tray on the bed, cursing softly as the tea slopped over the edge of the mugs. He handed a mug to Alistair, then passed him a plate laden with sandwiches and pastries.

Fearghal sat on the edge of bed, nursing his tea. "What I meant was, are you still worried about what Arl Eamon is going to think about you? At the end of the day, it was my decision. There's no reason he should think badly of you."

"I thought a lot about that, too." Alistair flushed slightly. "What you said about feeling more beholden to him than I should."

Fearghal winced, remembering how harsh he had been. "I'm sorry. Tact and diplomacy were never my strong points, I shouldn't have..."

"No, you were right. I-I never felt as if I belonged here. I can remember thinking, if only I was more... I don't know... more good or more willing or more... clever, that it would be different, but it never was, no matter how hard I tried. Isolde was even worse. I was too noisy or untidy or dirty. To be honest, it was a relief to move into the loft above the stables. I'd always liked the horses and at least I wasn't under Isolde's beady eye.

"I used to watch the village boys... I envied them _so_ much. I didn't fit in with them, either. When I found out who my father was, I just wished he's sent me to be fostered with an ordinary family."

"How old were you when you found out who your father was?"

"Six. A group of boys were playing down at the lake. One of them must have taken pity on me; they asked me if I wanted to go swimming with them. I couldn't actually swim, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. It was great, until I stripped off, then they all took one look at me and went quiet." Alistair paused to drink his tea. He hadn't recalled that day in years and was surprised at how much the memory still stung.

"They saw you were circumcised?"

Alistair nodded, blushing. "You know, I didn't even know I'd been circumcised until that day? One of them started to laugh, then they were all laughing. I thought there was something wrong with me! I... " He stopped, unable to continue. The memory was so vivid.

He'd stood there, naked and shivering by the lake as the boys had crowded round him, pointing, and tried to make sense of the discussion going on around him, as if he wasn't there.

 _"Wha's wrong with 'is willy?" asked one of the younger boys._

 _"I's been cut. I's somethin' lords do."_

 _"He's a bastard. Must be 'is dad was a lord."_

 _"Is Arl Eamon yer dad?"_

 _"If it in't Arl Eamon, who is it, then?"_

 _"It must be the arl, why would he take him in, else?"_

Alistair had pulled on his britches, grabbed his smock and fled back to the castle. When he'd arrived back at the kitchen, barefoot and in tears, the kindly cook had initially thought he'd been set on for his boots. He'd burned with shame as he'd tried to explain to her what had happened. When she finally understood, she'd sat him in a corner with a piece of fruitcake and gone to speak to the arl. Alistair had barely eaten half of his cake before he'd been summoned to see Arl Eamon.

Alistair had stood in front of the arl's desk while it was explained to him who his father was. For a brief instant, his heart had filled with hope. His father was a king! Being sent to Redcliffe must be some kind of mistake. He could go and live in Denerim, in a palace. His dreams were extremely short-lived. Arl Eamon had made quite plain, as kindly as he could, that he was in Redcliffe to stay; furthermore, _no one_ was to know who Alistair's father was. He was nothing, a nobody, a mistake to be hidden away.

Sitting on the hard chair, Alistair was horrified when he felt tears pricking his eyes. He stood hurriedly and looked out of the window, his back to Fearghal.

"I don't know why I've thought of this place as home; it's never felt like a home, it's just the place I was born and started to grow up in. I don't think I ever felt at home anywhere until Duncan conscripted me." He jumped as he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I never realised... You didn't deserve to be treated like that." Fearghal squeezed Alistair's shoulder.

The unexpected sympathy in Fearghal's voice only made it harder for Alistair to hold back the tears. He roughly wiped his eyes, muttering. "Stupid. It was years ago... "

"It's not stupid." Fearghal frowned. "I'm sorry, I've been so selfish. I've been so wrapped up in my own... I never thought... " He tugged at Alistair, turning him, then caught him up in a hug. "Hey, we're both Grey Wardens; that makes us brothers, right?"

Alistair pulled away slightly, nodding.

"I'll deal with Eamon. You deserved better." There was an edge of anger in Fearghal's voice.

Alistair drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "I feel like such a fool... "

"Huh! I've seen Fergus cry more times than I've seen you. You have a lot to learn about brothers."

Alistair smiled wryly. The irony that Fearghal was now accepting he was Alistair's Grey Warden _brother_ wasn't lost on him. _The last thing I want to be is his_ brother _!_

"I'm going to go and wash up... again." Alistair managed a wry smile.

Fearghal nodded and watched him go, thoughtfully. When he'd hugged Alistair, it had crossed his mind how _good_ Alistair felt in his arms. For all his words, Fearghal wasn't feeling very brotherly at all. A pang of guilt washed over him; it had been less than three months since he'd lost Rory.


	44. Chapter 44

Teagan ushered Fearghal and Alistair into the library. Fearghal looked curiously at the man seated at near the windows, who looked back, then stood to greet them. He vaguely remembered having been introduced to him in Denerim, several years before; he was shocked by how much Eamon had aged since then. Fearghal remembered him with dark hair, barely touched with grey. It was more than that, though; his beard was full and heavy, not the light beard he'd worn in the past; his skin looked dull, it sagged and wrinkled. Fearghal wondered how much of the transformation was due to his long illness.

"Fearghal, welcome. I was sorry to hear about events at Highever. Your parents were fine people; they will be missed."

Fearghal felt as if he'd been punched in the chest. _I'm never going to get used to it._ He took a deep breath and gathered himself enough to mumble, "Thank you."

Eamon looked past Fearghal and regarded Alistair warily. "Alistair, it's good to see you after so long."

"Arl Eamon, I'm glad to see you up and about again."

Eamon gestured to the table. "Come, sit. We have a lot to discuss."

Eamon seated himself at the head of the table. Teagan sat to his right, Fearghal to his left; Alistair sat alongside Fearghal.

"Teagan has been telling me all that has happened while I've been ill; it is _most_ troubling. There is much to be done, but first I should thank you both."

"I'm not sure you should be thanking me," said Fearghal.

"Fearghal, I know you did what you had to do. I grieve for Isolde, but I believe that had you not acted as you did, it might have been far worse."

Fearghal nodded, but said nothing. He'd hoped that the arl would understand his motives, regardless of his fears, but there was a part of him that had dreaded facing Arl Eamon.

"I am in your debt. Will you permit me to offer a reward for your service?

"We need your help against the Blight. That will do." Fearghal understood why Eamon wished to reward him; his father would have done the same. Regardless of his personal loss, Fearghal knew his father would have been grateful for any assistance rendered to those under his care. _But, still..._

"I understand, but regardless of your motivations, I feel you are worthy of a reward. I would like to honour your efforts, nothing more." Eamon insisted, misunderstanding Fearghal's reluctance.

"As you wish, then," said Fearghal, not wanting to appear churlish.

"Then allow me to declare you and those travelling with you champions of Redcliffe. You will always be a welcome guest within these halls."

"Thank you, my lord."

"So, Loghain instigates civil war even though the darkspawn are on our very doorstep. Long have I known him. He is a sensible man, one who never desired power." Eamon appeared reluctant to think the worst of Loghain.

"I was there when he was announced he was taking control of the throne, Eamon. He is mad with ambition, I tell you," burst out Teagan. Fearghal was surprised; he'd never seen Teagan so agitated. The urbane Bann was usually relaxed and cheerful.

"Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped," conceded Eamon, looking thoughtful. "What's more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end."

"What are you proposing, then?" asked Fearghal.

"We have no time to wage a campaign against him. Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn."

"But once everyone learns what he has done..." Fearghal knew that surrender was out of the question, for him and Alistair, at least. Loghain had accused the Grey Wardens of treason; that would mean a death sentence for the pair of them. _We'd be lucky to get a show trial._

"I will spread word of Loghain's treachery, both here and against the king. But it will be a claim made without proof. Those claims will give Loghain's allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain's daughter, the queen," said Eamon, almost as if thinking aloud.

"Are you referring to Alistair, Brother? Are you certain?" Teagan's astonishment was obvious.

"I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative. But the unthinkable has occurred."

"You intend to put _Alistair_ forward as king?" asked Fearghal, as astonished as Teagan clearly was.

"Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair's claim is by blood," Eamon explained.

"It's not that simple, my lord. Alistair is a Grey Warden. In addition, he's had no training or preparation for such a role; quite the opposite, in fact." Fearghal glared at Arl Eamon. He desperately wanted to say more, but they needed this man as an ally. "Can you unite the nobility against Loghain or not?"

"That also is no simple matter." Eamon smiled coolly at Fearghal. "I can unite all those that oppose Loghain, certainly. But not all oppose him; he has some very powerful allies." Eamon spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. Fearghal clenched his fists on his lap; hitting the arl would be a really bad idea.

"Ferelden must be united, and quickly. A civil war not only wastes time, it wastes valuable resources. We can ill afford either. Unless you have any other suggestions, I see no other way to proceed."

"No, my lord," muttered Fearghal.

"And what about me? Does anyone care what _I_ want?" demanded Alistair.

"You have a responsibility, Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?"

Fearghal winced at Eamon's reply; he understood that Alistair hated Loghain almost as much as he himself hated Howe. He wondered if Eamon knew that.

"I... but, I... no, my lord." Alistair's voice was miserable but resigned.

"Very well, I will call for a Landsmeet. There, Ferelden can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin. What say you to that, my friend? I do not wish to proceed without your blessing." Eamon looked at Fearghal expectantly.

"It seems we have little choice," agreed Fearghal. "If you will excuse us, Alistair and I need to discuss our plans for the journey to Orzammar." Fearghal stood and bowed to Eamon and Teagan. He looked expectantly at Alistair, who seemed dazed by the discussion.

Alistair came to with a visible start and stood, following Fearghal from the library.

The door had barely closed behind them, when Alistair grabbed Fearghal's arm. "How could you agree...?"

"Shut up! Not here," hissed Fearghal. He shook his arm free and marched upstairs, leading the way to his room. He had barely got the door closed behind them when Alistair erupted again.

"He wants to make me king! How could you agree to that?" Alistair was shouting, his face furious.

"Maker's cock, Alistair, keep your voice down!" growled Fearghal. "We _need_ Eamon; we need him to think that he's getting what he wants. That's not going to happen if they can hear you bellowing like an angry bull all the way down in the servants' hall."

"What exactly are you saying?" Alistair glared at Fearghal suspiciously.

"I'm saying you're a Grey Warden. You can't be king, any more than I can be Teyrn of Highever." Fearghal paused, trying to gauge Alistair's reaction; his fellow warden was still glaring at him. Fearghal sat on the bed, waving Alistair over to the chair. He took a moment, trying to organise his thoughts.

"I remember what you said, at my Joining," he began.

"Your Joining? What does that have to do with anything?" Alistair looked startled and a little confused.

"You said, ' _Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn._ ' I've thought about that a lot over the last few weeks. Once a Grey Warden, always a Grey Warden, right?"

"Well, yes, but... "

"Duncan also said that he would use ' _any means necessary_ ' to counter a Blight. He said it several times to me on our way to Ostagar. It was how he justified... " Fearghal's jaw clenched with the effort of repeating Duncan's words. The memory of the man threatened to ignite that searing rage that had been damped down recently.

"I know; I heard him say it several times. He didn't always like it, but he would use whatever means he could against the darkspawn. I remember having a row with him, shortly after my own Joining, about blood mages."

"Well, I think it's _necessary_ that Eamon _believes_ that you will take the throne. Even if you and I know that will never happen."

"I still don't understand," confessed Alistair.

"Think about it, Alistair. In one way, Eamon's right. The only way to defeat the darkspawn is with a united Ferelden. With a civil war going on, all the Archdemon has to do is be patient for a little while, then pick off the survivors. If we tell Eamon that you won't... that you can't be king, what do you think he's going to do?" Fearghal got up off the bed and started pacing.

"I don't know, I mean what could he do?" Alistair frowned, as he watched Fearghal prowling.

"He'll make peace with Loghain. What else could he do? To be honest, I could live with that if I believed that Loghain would make peace with us, too. But I don't believe he will, or even that he can at this point; it would raise too many questions. There's no way a Ferelden united under Loghain is going to back us."

"But what about the treaties?"

"I'm not sure they'll be enough on their own," admitted Fearghal.

"Okay. So we let Eamon think that I'll take the throne. What happens when we get to the Landsmeet?" Alistair looked less wary, but still unconvinced.

Fearghal groaned and sat on the bed again. "I have no idea." He sighed. "I wish Fergus was here. He could probably convince Eamon to back us, anyway. " Fearghal flopped back on the bed, suddenly weary and depressed. "I'm sorry. I was never any good at all this. All I can think of is that if we can convince the Landsmeet that we're not traitors and that this really is a Blight, we can persuade them to squabble over who rules later. Right now, they could crown Bane for all I care."

"And that's your idea of a plan?" demanded Alistair. "Maker's breath, I'm doomed."

Fearghal lifted his head to see Alistair bury his head in his hands. In one swift movement, he pushed himself up off the bed and crouched down on one knee in front of Alistair, pulling Alistair's hands down from his face.

"I swear I will not let him do this, Alistair." Alistair slowly lifted his head and looked at Fearghal. The misery and uncertainty in Alistair's eyes was like a blow. Unaccountably, Fearghal wanted to comfort Alistair. _And not like a brother!_ Fearghal pushed the thought away. He squeezed Alistair's hands in his own. "I swear to you, I will not let him put you on the throne. I don't know how, yet, but I will find a way, I promise you."

Fearghal gazed up at Alistair and saw the uncertainty clear from his face as Alistair gave a little nod. Fearghal forced himself to stand up. "I'd like to get out of here as soon as possible. I suggest we leave for Orzammar tomorrow."

Alistair stood, nodding in agreement. "I'll go and tell the others."

Fearghal watched him leave, then threw himself on the bed with a sigh. He was utterly convinced that they needed to let Eamon think he could put Alistair on the throne, but he hadn't got the first idea how they were going to deal with that, when the time came.

He felt a flare of anger at Eamon. _Grasping old bastard! Now he decides that Alistair has a responsibility to Ferelden? If he hadn't been sent to the Chantry, Alistair would still be grooming his horses!_ Fearghal couldn't explain why he felt so protective of Alistair; it was more than the brotherhood of being Grey Wardens. He groaned softly. When he'd looked up at Alistair, had seen the misery in his face, he'd wanted to hold him. _Not just hold him..._ Fearghal felt a flare of desire and pushed it away. Alistair wasn't a man to ' _seize the moment_ ', as Zevran had put it. Moreover, he had made his preferences plain and they didn't include Fearghal, or men like him.

Scowling, Fearghal got up and started stuffing his belongings into his pack.

~o~O~o~

Alistair propped his pack against the wall. He felt tense and restless; he had no idea what to do with himself. Packing his belongings had kept him busy for too short a time; now his panic was rising again. He couldn't believe that Eamon wanted to put him on the throne. He'd been told for years that he was nothing, nobody; now all that was to be swept aside. _I don't want to be a king; I'm a Grey Warden._ He moved over to the window and stared out. Below him, some of Redcliffe's knights were sparring in the practice yard. Alistair watched them, his thoughts in turmoil.

He wanted to believe Fearghal, he really did. There was no doubting the sincerity of the words he'd spoken. ' _I swear to you, I will not let him put you on the throne. I don't know how, yet, but I will find a way, I promise you._ ' They had been said with an intensity that had convinced Alistair that Fearghal meant what he said. But, while he didn't doubt Fearghal's sincerity, he wasn't so sure that Fearghal could keep his promise. After all, they'd both learned, the hard way, that sometimes events overtook intentions.

Alistair flung himself away from the window, bristling with tension. On an impulse, he threw the door open and went down the passage. He stopped in front of Fearghal's door and knocked.

"Alistair." Fearghal looked surprised to see him. "Is everything all right?"

"I just... all this... do you want to spar?"

"Sure? Is splint mail all right, or are you planning to kill me?" Fearghal cocked his head on one side, grinning.

"Mail will be fine; I'm saving you to feed to the Archdemon."

"Before or after you become king?" Fearghal smirked.

Alistair felt his anger flare at the jibe. "I'll see you down in the yard in ten minutes," he growled.

Alistair could hear Fearghal chuckling as he strode back to his room. _I'll show him!_ Alistair grabbed his pack and pulled his splint mail out. Alistair was sick and tired of being pushed around, subject to other people's whims. He was angry at Eamon and he was almost as angry at Fearghal. It was all just _words_. All his life Alistair had listened to other people planning his life out for him; live here, live there; be that, now be this. _I've had enough!_

Alistair finished buckling his armour, grabbed his shield and made his way down to the practice yard. Fearghal was already there, at the sword rack. Alistair marched over to the rack and picked out a sword, swinging it, testing the balance in his hand; it would do. He saw Fearghal decide on a sword, then he turned to Alistair, his eyes alight.

"Let's make this interesting. Loser gets to be king." Fearghal grinned at Alistair, almost laughing.

Alistair struggled to hold on to his temper. He didn't reply. Instead, he slipped his shield onto his arm and went to the centre of the practice yard.

Fearghal followed him, grinning. "Ready when you are."

Alistair didn't bother to reply; he charged. He heard Fearghal's grunt of surprise as the charge sent him staggering back. Alistair didn't give him time to recover; Fearghal got his shield up just in time to block the blows that rained down. Alistair pushed forward with his shield and felt the resistance as Fearghal found his footing and steadied himself, digging his heels in. He looked up and saw Fearghal's eyes narrow, the grin replaced by the feral snarl that Alistair had seen so many times on his face.

Attack, block, attack, parry. Alistair's vision narrowed as he focused his anger on the man in front of him. The yard rang with the clang of clashing metal, under laid with the dull thuds as blows were blocked with shields. Neither man noticed the other knights cease their own sparring and move out of the way as they made their progress up and down the yard. First Alistair had the advantage, pressing Fearghal back, then Fearghal steadied and pushed back, forcing Alistair to back up, then the tide turned again.

Alistair saw Fearghal stumble slightly as he backed off and punched forward with his shield as hard as he could. Fearghal tried to keep his feet, but Alistair punched forward again, swinging his sword at the same time. Fearghal tried to bring his own sword up to parry the blow, but the movement overbalanced him completely and he fell backwards. Alistair stood over him and lowered his sword so that the tip rested against Fearghal's throat.

"Do you yield... your majesty?"

Fearghal stared up at him for a moment, then laughed. "I yield." He held his hand out and Alistair grasped it and tugged him to his feet.

"So, do you feel better after that?" asked Fearghal.

Alistair felt the heat flood his face. "I'm sorry, I just felt so... "

"I know. Believe me, you don't have to explain it to _me_. I meant what I said, though. I'll find a way out of this, or die trying."

Alistair stared after Fearghal as the other man went over to the weapon rack and replaced his sword. Fearghal grinned at him as he turned and started to cross the courtyard towards the steps.

"You've really buggered up Fenwick's sweepstake, you know!"

Alistair knew he was gaping and snapped his mouth shut. He dragged his eyes away from the retreating warden as the Redcliffe knights crowded around him, offering their congratulations.


	45. Chapter 45

Bann Teagan had organised two fishing boats to take them all to the north end of Lake Calenhad; it would save them a considerable walk. Fearghal, Alistair and Bane went in one boat, Wynne, Morrigan, Leliana and Zevran in the other. The day was overcast and, out on the lake, it was windy, the water choppy. Alistair felt distinctly ill as he leaned on his pack, set against the side of the boat. He felt like he'd been poured into a bottle that was being shaken up. He glanced up at Fearghal; his fellow-warden was apparently unaffected by the movement of the small vessel.

Fearghal was standing, leaning sideways against the side of the boat, one arm raised to hold onto part of the rigging, moving easily with the motion of the small craft. The wind whipped his shaggy mop of hair across his face. Even with his hair obscuring his face, Alistair could see him smiling. _Maker's breath! He's enjoying this!_ Alistair groaned as he felt his gorge rising. He desperately willed himself not to be sick and, for a few brief moments, he thought he'd succeeded; then his belly clenched and he started to retch. With a yelp, he leaped up and leaned over the side just in time, before he was violently sick.

Alistair leaned his head on his arms, trembling. He started as he felt a hand on his back. He turned his head and saw Fearghal standing next to him, holding out a water skin.

"Don't drink it, just rinse your mouth out."

Alistair did as he was told, rinsing the sour taste out of his mouth.

"You know, if you'd said you get sick, I'd have put you in with Wynne," Fearghal told him, smiling.

"Yes, well, I didn't bloody know," grumbled Alistair. "I've never been on a boat before."

"Ah. Some people get used to it, although I doubt we'll be on this boat long enough. Having said that, Fergus never did." Fearghal laughed. "He apparently puked all the way to Antiva and all the way back again. It's a wonder Oriana didn't get on the next boat home."

Alistair smiled weakly. He noticed that Fearghal was talking more and more about his family. Not just about what had happened when Howe had attacked Castle Cousland, but little anecdotes just dropped into conversation. At first he would catch himself, as if he'd slipped up somehow, but since the Gauntlet he'd started to open up more.

"When we sparred yesterday, you said something afterwards, about having ' _buggered up Fenwick's sweepstake._ ' What did you mean?"

Fearghal leaned on the rail and looked out over the water. For a moment, Alistair didn't think he was going to answer the question.

"It... it was just something silly we had going at home. Rory... I was the only warrior he couldn't beat. He came close, many times; Fenwick started running a sweepstake every time we sparred. We could both beat everyone else, but he'd never beaten me." Fearghal laughed softly. "Up until yesterday, no-one had beaten me for a long time."

Alistair stole a sideways glance at Fearghal but detected no rancour, just a sad smile. "He must have been very good; I know that Duncan went to Highever to test him. He wouldn't have considered him, otherwise."

"He _was_ good. I didn't understand for a long time why he couldn't beat me. I saw him easily best men I struggled to beat."

"Why, then? Are you saying he let you win?"

"No. It was just... " Fearghal stopped, looking abashed. "When I fight, it doesn't matter who I fight... once I start, my blood's up. I'll keep going until I either win or lose... or until I drop."

Alistair nodded, remembering the first time they'd sparred; how Fearghal had kept coming at him until they were both exhausted.

"Rory was different. More like you, I suppose. His style was always more defensive, like yours; he always kept a cooler head when he was fighting. It's not that he couldn't fight like I do; I've seen him do it... just never against me, maybe because... "

' _Because he loved you,_ ' thought Alistair.

"Anyway, you beating me would seriously have buggered up Fenwick's sweepstake." Fearghal straightened and looked at Alistair. "You look a little less green. Keep that, for now." Fearghal gestured at the water skin in Alistair's hand then went and sat himself on the opposite side of the boat, leaning against Bane. It was clear that the conversation was over.

Alistair watched as Fearghal tilted his face up to the sun and closed his eyes. Alistair didn't think for a moment that Fearghal was going to sleep. From the look on his face, a mixture of sadness and longing, he was probably revisiting old memories.

~o~O~o~

They had landed at the northern shore of the lake later that same afternoon and camped near the water's edge, then set off towards the Frostbacks the next morning. That night, Fearghal and Zevran had finished their watch. Fearghal stripped off his armour before crawling into the tent where Alistair lay sleeping. He piled his armour up as quietly as he could and crawled onto his bedroll, pulling his blankets tightly around him; he hardly dared go to sleep. Last night, after talking to Alistair on the boat, his dreams had been full of Rory. Not nightmares, but vivid, erotic dreams. He'd woken, aching and aroused, and it had been like losing Rory all over again. He missed him in so many ways. He knew he'd been like a bear with a sore head all day.

Alistair had been his usual patient self, refusing to be fazed by Fearghal's bad temper. Fearghal shuffled, trying to get comfortable. Alistair had made it quite clear in the past that he was willing to listen, if Fearghal wanted to talk, but Fearghal didn't feel he could talk to Alistair about Rory. Alistair would probably burst a blood vessel if Fearghal started to talk about how he missed his lover. Not just the closeness, the companionship they'd shared, but being held, being touched... all of it. They'd only had eleven months together, but in that time, Rory had become such an important part of his life; he'd left a huge hole that Fearghal didn't have the first idea how to fill.

Fearghal turned over, thumping his pillow, irritably. He heard Alistair stir at the side of him and froze.

"Wha's the matter?" Alistair's voice was thick with sleep.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep, Alistair." He heard Alistair shuffling on his bedroll.

"You've been grumpy all day. What's bothering you? Is it... because of what I asked you, yesterday?"

"No... well, it's just..." Fearghal rolled on to his back and sighed. "Just go back to sleep, Alistair."

"You never talk about him... Rory, I mean. You talk about your family, but not... I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked, if I'd realised it would upset you so much."

"I know. It doesn't matter, Alistair. He's harder to talk about... some of the things I miss about him, well, let's just say they're private."

"Ah."

In spite of himself, Fearghal had to smile; his virginal 'brother' managed to convey so much embarrassment in one tiny word.

"Are you blushing, Alistair?"

"Probably," mumbled Alistair.

"Then go back to sleep." There was a long silence, before Fearghal heard Alistair clear his throat awkwardly.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Like I've said before, you can ask but I might not answer," replied Fearghal warily.

"Well, if it's partly that you miss _that_ , then why not... um... sleep in Zevran's tent?"

"He's not my type," said Fearghal.

"That's what he said you said, but then, like I said to him, he _was_ your type in Denerim."

"Pardon?" said Fearghal faintly, his mind boggling as he tried to unravel what Alistair had just said.

"I said... "

"No, please, don't repeat it. I think I understood what you said; if you say it again, I'll just get confused." Fearghal pulled his blanket tighter around him. "It's like I told you, it was just a moment. It's gone, done."

"Well, what's to stop you having another _moment_? It might make you feel better."

Fearghal couldn't help chuckling. "Well, I suppose it's not completely out of the question, but it's unlikely. Moments should be just that. If you try to re-create them, it becomes something different."

"Is that how it started with Rory?"

"No." It was on the tip of Fearghal's tongue to tell Alistair how he'd pined after Rory for over a year, but the words stuck in his throat.

"But he was your type?"

"Obviously."

"So what is that?" Alistair's couldn't hide the curiosity in his voice. "Red hair? Green eyes? Warriors... "

Fearghal could hear the realisation in his voice. It wasn't warriors per se, but it was that physical type that aroused his interest. _Oh, shit! He'll be fretting now that I fancy him._ Fearghal ignored the other voice in his head that was whispering, ' _But you do._ ' He'd always made a point of not forcing his attentions where they were clearly unwelcome.

"Don't panic, Alistair. You'll be relieved to know that my lovers have included blacksmiths, grooms and sailors; very few warriors, in fact. Your virginity is quite safe with me." Fearghal strove to keep his tone light.

"That's good to know," came the dry reply in the darkness.

Fearghal's burgeoning friendship with Alistair was so new, felt so fragile, he didn't want to do or say anything that would jeopardise it; he was startled to realise how important it had become to him, in such a short space of time. Alistair's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"What is this, Twenty Questions?" asked Fearghal, chuckling.

"Well, we're brothers, right? Who else should I ask? I bet you asked Fergus about this sort of thing!"

Fearghal could hear the grin in Alistair's voice, even though it was too dark to see. He turned onto his side, so that he faced Alistair. He was unexpectedly touched; he _could_ remember having these sorts of conversations with Fergus, although he'd been much younger than Alistair; then again he hadn't been shut away in a monastery when he was ten years old.

"This sort of thing?" Fearghal groaned. "Go on, do your worst. Ask."

"Well... how did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That...er... you liked... um... didn't like girls."

"The same way that know you _do_ like them," replied Fearghal, laughing. "I rarely felt a flicker of interest in girls, but boys, well, let's just say that my interest made itself fairly obvious, embarrassingly so, on occasion." Fearghal thought about it for a moment. "Once I started getting interested in sex, it was always with boys. The first crush I ever had was on a boy. You must know what it's like, even living in the chantry."

"Huh, we had a few elderly sisters. They weren't likely to set anyone's pulse racing."

"So who did set your pulse racing?" It was Fearghal's turn to be curious. "You must have had a crush on someone. at some point, even with your upbringing."

"Well, yes... but it was a long time ago. To be honest, I tried not to think about it... I mean, there was no point, was there?"

"I suppose not." Fearghal was quiet for a moment, trying to imagine growing up, believing you were destined never to have sex. "Anyway, there's your answer. If you get crushes on boys, you like boys, whereas if you go weak at the knees for a pretty face and curves, then you like girls. Simple really."

"But you never thought it was... wrong?" Alistair's voice was hesitant.

"Wrong? Why would I?" Fearghal was astonished. "Even the Chantry has nothing much to say on it, which is quite remarkable, given they've got an opinion on everything else. I think I was more worried in the end that it would make things more difficult with my parents."

"How come?"

"Well, they wanted to arrange a marriage for me. It's all about alliances and so on." Fearghal paused, remembering the embarrassing conversation he'd had with his father. "I mean they knew, of course, but I think they thought it was a phase, something I'd grow out of and even if I didn't, well, there's more than one married nobleman that would rather be in the company of his groom than his wife, if you know what I mean.

"To be honest, I never thought much about it myself, until Rory. Maybe, if I'd been married first, it would have been different, I'd have just tried to make the best of it, lived a double life but... I just didn't want to go into something like that, knowing it would be a lie, right from the start."

Fearghal yawned. "Was there anything else you wanted to know? Can I go to sleep now?"

"Sorry. Good night, Fearghal."

"G'night."


	46. Chapter 46

They had been walking for three days when they hit the first snow; fine, soft flakes that covered the ground in no time at all. By the time they stopped to set up camp, there was a covering of at least two inches, although it had stopped snowing. While Fearghal, Alistair and Zevran put the tents up, Wynne, Morrigan and Leliana got a fire going. Darkness fell quickly and no-one lingered by the fire once their evening meal was finished; all but Morrigan, who had first watch, retreated to their tents to bundle up in their blankets.

Alistair felt like he'd only been asleep for five minutes when he felt a gentle nudge at his foot. He lifted his head wearily to see Bane looking at him; with his tongue hanging out the great hound almost looked like he was grinning. _Maybe he is; he gets to rest now._ Alistair wriggled out from under his blankets and grabbed his armour, buckling it on. He stole a look at Fearghal; he was fast asleep, lying on his side, curled up under a mound of blankets. It struck him again, as it had in the mages' tower, how young Fearghal looked when he was asleep. He crawled out of the tent, tying the flaps.

Leliana was already shivering beside the fire. She looked up at Alistair and smiled as he emerged from the tent, then they did the first circuit of the camp. Walking kept them warm enough, but as soon as they stopped, they started shiver again. The fire was small and what wood they'd found had been damp; it wasn't burning well. Leliana ducked into her tent and reappeared with two blankets. Alistair took one gratefully and draped it over his shoulders.

"You have been very pensive today, Alistair. It is unlike you to have so little to say."

"Just nothing much to say, I guess," said Alistair, shrugging.

"Ah." Leliana smiled and turned her attention to the fire.

Since she had told him and Fearghal how she'd come to be in Ferelden, Alistair had come to know her better. She was less likely to talk of shoes and ribbons; instead, she told him of her childhood and he had told her about his. They had compared monastery life to rural chantry life; sometimes they spoke of deeper things. Best of all, if Alistair didn't feel like talking, or listening, they didn't talk at all.

He glanced at her, screwing up his courage; he cleared his throat. "Um... Leliana... "

"Yes, Alistair?"

"Er... if I asked you something, will you promise not to laugh or... um... tell anyone I asked?"

"It sounds like this will be a serious question, _mon ami_. Very well, you have my word." Leliana looked at him, waiting expectantly.

"It's just...Oh, Maker! This even sounds stupid in my head!" groaned Alistair. He glanced at Leliana, who waited patiently. "How do you know if you're in love with someone?"

Leliana stared at him. "You are asking because you think you are... ?"

"Yes," admitted Alistair, miserably. "And I have no idea what to do!"

"Does this person know how you feel about them?"

"No." Alistair sighed. "I'm not even sure myself how I feel, well, I sort of do, but not if it's... you know."

"So, are you asking me whether you are in love, or what to do about it?"

"Both, I suppose."

"Well, _mon ami_ , I think that only you can know for sure if you love them," Leliana told him.

"Huh, most of the time I can't think straight. I don't know if I'm coming or going! I don't suppose it matters anyway. I-I know that they love someone else. I've made such a mess of things!"

"Oh, Alistair. I am sorry, I truly am." Leliana reached out a hand and patted Alistair's shoulder. "You are sure? That there is no hope?"

"Well, I'm sure that they love someone else, but the man he loved died... Maker! That sounds so awful, so callous." Alistair didn't notice his slip, or Leliana's eyes widen at it, so intently was he staring into the fire. "I hate to see him hurting, but at the same time... "

"It sounds as if you care for... this person a great deal, _mon ami_ ," said Leliana carefully. "But it is not completely hopeless, no? People do not grieve for ever."

"No, but when we met, well, let's just say we got off to a bad start. I may have given them... um... the impression that actually, they'd be the last person in Thedas I'd... you know." Alistair groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. He looked up at Leliana and grinned weakly. "When I make a mess of things, I don't do it by halves!"

"Do not despair, Alistair. It may be that when their grief lessens, you will have a chance. I'm sure you will have the opportunity to show this person how you feel. You will know the moment, when it comes. You must be brave and seize it."

 _Moments... Fearghal talked about his night with Zevran as a moment. I want more than a moment._ Alistair stood up, shrugging off the blanket. "We'd better do another circuit. Thank you for listening, Leliana."

Leliana stood and patted his arm. "I am sorry I have no easy answers for you, _mon ami_."

~o~O~o~

Fearghal and Alistair followed the group down the broad path that twisted and curved down the side of the mountain. The way became less steep as they descended. Fearghal sneaked a glance at his companion; Alistair seemed tired and had been unusually quiet all morning. Fearghal was a little startled to realise how much this unsettled him; he had come to depend on Alistair's cheer to lift his own spirits. He was a little at a loss how to deal it. He slowed his pace a little; at his side, Alistair slowed too, seemingly without notice.

Fearghal waited until the others had pulled ahead a little, then stopped.

"Is something wrong, Alistair?"

"What? No." Alistair looked surprised at the question. "I didn't get back to sleep properly after my watch, that's all."

"Are you sure that's all? You're not worrying about Eamon?"

"No, really. I'm just a bit tired," Alistair assured him.

A shout took Fearghal's attention away from Alistair. The others had reached a bend in the path, a broad curve where it turned back on itself. Zevran waved, beckoning with his hand, shouting something unintelligible.

"We'd better catch them up," said Alistair. He sounded utterly fed up.

Fearghal walked to the edge of the path, then looked back at Alistair, grinning. "I bet we can be at the bottom before them," he said, taking his shield off his back.

Alistair gaped at him. "You can't mean...down there? On our shields?"

"Why not? It's not particularly steep. The snow looks quite deep at the bottom, where it's drifted; we should have a soft landing."

"B-but Morrigan... Wynne... " Alistair stood at the edge of the path, his uncertainty plain.

"Pfft. Morrigan's never learned how to enjoy herself and Wynne's so old, she's forgotten how!" said Fearghal, dismissively. He gave Alistair a measuring look. "Unless you're... scared."

Fearghal grinned when Alistair protested hotly, "I am _not_ scared! It's just... well, I'm not sure our shields are big enough."

"They're fine. Crouch on the shield and hold on to the _enarmes_. Like this, look." Fearghal placed his shield at the edge of the path and stepped on to it, holding the leather straps at the back. He leaned forwards and let his weight tip over the edge.

Fearghal set off down the slope, quickly gathering speed, whooping with glee. Alistair shrugged his shield off and set off after him. Fearghal felt the air rushing past him faster and faster. He found he was able to steer, after a fashion, by leaning his weight to one side or the other. _It's like flying!_ As the ground levelled out, he hit a bump and went sprawling into a snowdrift. He lay there, winded, then heard a startled yell and saw Alistair hurtling towards him, his eyes wide with alarm. Fearghal rolled out of the way as Alistair landed alongside him.

"Oof!" The impact knocked all air out of Alistair's lungs as he hit the snowdrift.

As Alistair lay there, dazed, Fearghal started to laugh. He rolled on to his back, laughing like a lunatic. He hadn't had this much fun in _ages_!

Alistair slowly started to sit up, chuckling. "That was... fun," he admitted. He grinned widely. "I think we're in trouble, but it was definitely fun."

"It's blown the cobwebs away?" asked Fearghal, sitting up. He looked at Alistair, his brown eyes sparkling with laughter, his cheeks flushed with the cold above his beard and felt a flicker of desire. _Maker's breath, but he's handsome!_

"What in Andraste's name do you two think you're doing?" demanded Wynne. She loomed over them, hands on her hips; her cheeks were flushed too, but with anger rather than cold. "Are you out of your minds? What were you thinking of? You are the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden. You could have broken your necks!"

"I'm sorry, Wynne. I know... it would have looked awful in the history books." Feraghal sniggered and caught Alistair eyes and winked. He saw Alistair start to giggle, then clap his hand over his mouth as Wynne glared at him.

"I don't know why I'm wasting my breath," said Wynne, snorting with disgust. "I suggest you gather your shields and get onto the path. Leliana says that we should reach Orzammar by late afternoon."

As Wynne stalked back to the path, Fearghal and Alistair picked up their shields and followed her, chuckling. Fearghal's desire to giggle only got worse as they rejoined the others. Morrigan was looking at them, seemingly torn between disdain and bafflement; Leliana looked like she was trying not to smile, her blue eyes twinkling; Zevran grinned as them, openly amused.

"So, this is how you have fun in snow?"

"Indeed it is, Zev. Do you want to borrow my shield?" offered Fearghal, laughing.

"Thank you, but no. At least this time it is you, not I, that is covered in snow and will end up cold and wet."

"We'll be in Orzammar before dark. It's nice and warm in there, by all accounts. Even warm enough for you."

~o~O~o~

It was almost dark by the time they arrived at Orzammar. They'd been held up by a gang of bandits on the road. They hadn't been difficult to deal with, but it had slowed them down. There was a market just outside the gates that looked to be packing away for the night; Leliana was easily persuaded that she could come up and visit it another day.

As they walked up the ramp to the massive gates, Fearghal could see a group of humans having an animated discussion with one of the guards. Fragments of conversation drifted down to them.

"King Loghain will not suffer this delay of his appointed messenger!" The human, clad in splintmail, crossed his arms and attempted to intimidate the guard by looming over him.

The sturdy dwarf looked unimpressed. "Veata! This land is held in trust for the sovereign dwarven kings. I cannot allow entry at this time."

Fearghal and Alistair exchanged a look.

"Uh-oh, trouble," muttered Alistair.

Fearghal marched up to the guard. "I have important business in Orzammar."

"Not more important than mine," declared the messenger, indignantly.

The guard turned to Fearghal. "Your business will wait, he told him brusquely. "Orzammar must limit outside influence until the throne is settled. No one gets in."

The guard patiently explain that the previous king, Endrin, had died less than a month before and the dwarven Assembly was still squabbling over a successor. Fearghal hesitated, knowing that it would likely cause more trouble with Loghain's messenger, then said," The Grey Wardens need their traditional dwarven allies." Fearghal pulled the treaty out of his pack and handed it to the guard.

"The Wardens killed King Cailan and nearly doomed Ferelden! They're sworn enemies of King Loghain!" The messenger was nearly apoplectic.

The guard examined the seal on the treaty and agreed to let them pass.

The messenger howled in outrage, demanding their immediate execution. Fearghal felt his temper flare. He drew his sword and pressed it against the neck of the messenger, who squeaked in alarm, eyes wide.

"Run back to your false king. The dwarves will not hear him today."

The messenger turned his terrified face to the guard and realised, as the guard looked on impassively, that there was no help to be had from him. He raised his hands and backed away from Fearghal's blade. The messenger beckoned his companions and descended the ramp hurriedly, turning at the bottom to shout defiantly, "King Loghain will hear of this!"

"Good!" shouted Fearghal. "Give him our regards."

He turned back to the dwarf guard, who was now grinning at him. "You've done me a service, Warden. That fool Imrek was barking for a week. Are all humans so touched?" Remembering himself, he straightened his face. "You are free to enter Orzammar, Grey Warden, though I don't know what help you will find," he said solemnly.

The great doors swung open and they entered Orzammar. The hall they found themselves in was enormous. For a few moments, they all stood and stared around them, lost for words. They made their way through the hall, heads swivelling, taking in the vaulted ceiling high above them, the reliefs carved on the walls, the immense statues. At the far end of the hall, two guards swung open another pair of doors and they walked straight into a fight. Two groups of angry dwarves faced each other, trading shouts and insults. A guard that tried to intervene was attacked and killed, then both sides melted away, as if into the stone.

Fearghal stood there, blinking, trying to make sense of what he'd seen.

"Stone-blind idiots! I won't have fighting in the Commons, especially in front of outsiders!" roared a furious voice.

An angry-looking dwarf marched up to them and greeted them abruptly. "Warden, I am bid to let you enter the Commons, but keep your place! Warden or not, I want order!"

"There is a Blight coming. We are here to seek Orzammar's assistance. We have no intention of causing trouble."

The guard glared up at Fearghal. "Surface problems." He snorted dismissively. "Well, we have no king to hear you. You can join the shouting at the Assembly in the Diamond Quarter, if you want."

"We were hoping to find somewhere to stay, first," said Fearghal.

"You're not going to stay in your compound?" The dwarf looked confused.

"We have a compound in Orzammar?" Fearghal looked across at Alistair, who shrugged; it was obviously news to him too.

The dwarf narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Are you sure you're Grey Wardens?"

"We hadn't been Wardens for long when the rest of our Order was killed at Ostagar, but, yes, we are Grey Wardens."

The dwarf turned away, grumbling to himself, then shouted, "Denrig! Show these people to the Grey Warden compound in the Diamond Quarter."

A red-haired guard with an intricately braided beard hurried over, then gestured at them to follow. He led the way through the city. For a man with such short legs, he moved surprisingly fast. There was no time to dawdle and look around as they hurried to keep up with him. He led them through a pair of heavy metal doors, saying, "This here's the Diamond Quarter. Your compound's just up here on the left."

Denrig turned left into a broad avenue and stopped in front of the first building. "This is it. Thamar, the caretaker, should be inside." Barely giving Fearghal time to thank him, he turned and hurried away.


	47. Chapter 47

Fearghal pushed the door open and the others followed him inside. "Hello?" he called.

A white-haired dwarf came towards him, bearing a light. "Humans? You are Grey Wardens?" he asked, obviously surprised to see them.

"I am, as is Alistair," said Fearghal.

"But we heard of the battle, deep in the south. I thought all the Wardens had fallen."

"I'm afraid Alistair and me are the only Wardens that survived Ostagar. We didn't even know that there was a compound here."

"It's not as big as the compound in Denerim, but we can accommodate you all, Warden... "

"Oh, I'm Fearghal and this is Alistair. Our companions are Wynne, Zevran, Leliana and Morrigan." Fearghal indicated each person as he introduced them. Fearghal heard a whine and smiled. "Oh, and this is Bane," he said, reaching down to fondle the dog's ears.

"I am Thamar," said the dwarf, bowing. "I'll show you to your rooms. There are only two baths, but hot water isn't a problem." He looked at the shaggy hair and beards sported by Fearghal and Alistair. "I'll send for the barber."

Thamar showed them to their rooms. There were six small rooms off one corridor. He showed them how work the rune lights set into the wall. As Alistair and Fearghal made towards the last two doors, Thamar stopped them and indicated they should follow him. He led them into a different corridor, with two doors facing each other. Each door led into a generously sized room. Fearghal was relieved to see that the furniture was human-sized and intrigued by the double beds. _Such a waste!_ Each room also had a couple of easy chairs, a bench along the bottom of the bed, an armoire and a desk.

"I suggest that the ladies have their baths first, Warden. I'll send the barber along as soon as he arrives. In the meantime, have you eaten?"

At the mention of food, Fearghal's stomach growled and he realised he was starving. "That would be excellent, thank you." He grinned at Alistair, then went into the right-hand room and shut the door, immediately pulling at the buckles on his armour. The food, when it arrived, was delicious. Meat pies, piles of mushrooms, soft bread. Fearghal couldn't identify the meat in the pies, but it was tender and lightly spiced. He was still eating when the barber arrived, so he sent the man to Alistair first. He was starting to doze in the comfortable chair when the barber returned. In no time at all, Fearghal was shaved, the beard he wore on his chin trimmed and his shaggy mop of hair looked much tidier. As the barber was finishing, Thamar arrived to take away his dishes and tell him that a bathroom was now free.

Fearghal's eyes widened at the bathroom. The bath appeared to have been carved from the stone at the same time as the room was made and was of a piece with the floor. It was full, almost to the brim, with steaming hot water. Thamar showed him where the towels were kept. Fearghal ripped off his smelly, sweaty clothes and sank gratefully into the hot water.

~o~O~o~

Alistair re-wrapped the small towel around his waist and sank on to the bench, leaning back against the wall. For the first time in days he felt clean. He'd felt like he would be never be truly clean again, just like when they'd reached Redcliffe after going to Haven, but after a shave, a haircut and a bath he'd started to feel like himself again. One of the Dwarven servants had recommended he try the steam room. Intrigued, he'd headed through the indicated door and now he felt like he'd died and reached the Golden City. Moist heat sank into his muscles easing the last traces of tension.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal rubbed himself dry vigorously. Finding that the Grey Wardens maintained a small compound in Orzammar had been unexpected. That it contained huge tubs with unlimited hot water was an added bonus. He'd soaked in the tub for almost an hour and only hauled himself out reluctantly because he felt like he should, rather than because he wanted to. He re-braided his newly-trimmed hair and headed out of the bathroom. Thamar met him coming out and suggested that he try the steam room.

"Steam room?" queried Fearghal.

"Yes, Warden. It's through there," answered Thamar, pointing at a door opposite. "Warden Alistair's already in there. Must be enjoying it, he's been in there for a while now."

Fearghal pushed the door open and entered the steam room. The room was warm and humid... steamy, in fact. He looked round and saw Alistair sitting on a bench against a wall to his right. Fearghal felt his stomach drop. It was almost like he was really seeing Alistair for the first time. The collar-length hair and beard were gone. Alistair had his eyes closed, one arm flung up, hand resting on his head. He looked breathtakingly beautiful. Wearing only a small towel, his powerful physique was fully revealed. Fearghal's insides turned to jelly as he looked at his fellow Warden. Desire flooded through him; he was rooted to the spot.

Fearghal saw Alistair shiver as the draught from the door reached him and let it go. It closed softly behind him. Then Alistair's eyes opened. Fearghal saw Alistair's puzzled look, then the blush; Fearghal realised he was staring but couldn't drag his eyes away. His mouth went dry as Alistair's eyes swept over him in a frankly appraising look; down, down they travelled, then Alistair's eyes snapped back up to Fearghal's. Mortified, Fearghal felt heat flood his own face.

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out; he had no idea what he could say. He backed slowly towards the door. Alistair was off the bench and across the room in the blink of an eye. He caught hold of Fearghal's arm.

"Don't go!"

Fearghal shivered at how low and husky Alistair's voice sounded. Not a request, almost a command. Alistair's hand gripped his forearm firmly, but not so tightly that Fearghal couldn't break away if he wanted to.

"Alistair... " Fearghal's voice was almost as husky as Alistair's had been. "I don't think we should... "

Alistair leaned in quickly and kissed Fearghal, cutting off what he'd been about to say. It was only a peck on the lips, clumsily done, but he couldn't think what else to do. He heard Leliana's voice. ' _I'm sure you will have the opportunity to show this person how you feel. You will know the moment, when it comes. You must be brave and seize it._ '

"Don't," murmured Alistair.

"D-Don't what?" asked Fearghal shakily.

"Think... talk... " mumbled Alistair against Fearghal's mouth. _Don't leave!_

Hesitantly, before his courage failed, Alistair kissed Fearghal again.

Something about Alistair's uncertainty sent a thrill through Fearghal; the tentative lips were such a contrast to the firm hand that still gripped his arm. Almost in spite of himself, Fearghal returned the kiss and felt the shiver run through Alistair. He nipped gently at Alistair's lower lip and heard him groan as his lips parted. Fearghal's tongue darted into his mouth and he felt Alistair go limp against him, his hand falling away from Fearghal's arm. Fearghal's arms came up around Alistair, pulling him close as he kissed him. Fearghal desperately wanted to push Alistair roughly up against the wall and plunder that mouth that was making small whimpering noises but a tiny voice in his head reminded him that this was _Alistair_ , who had probably never even been kissed before, never mind by a man.

Behind them the door flew open. "A steam room, how civili... ah, sorry, my dear Wardens, I didn't mean to interrupt."

Cursing, Fearghal dropped Alistair like a hot cake, pushing him away. He spun round and glared at the smirking Antivan, then strode out of the room.

Fearghal burst into his room, slamming the door behind him. He felt so frustrated he could scream. He paced up and down in his room, trying to bring some order to the confusion that raged through him. On the one hand he could cheerfully throttle Zev for interrupting. On the other... Alistair. It was a really bad idea to start something with Alistair. If he could be sure that Alistair would be happy with a casual fling... but that was the rub. Alistair was the _last_ person Fearghal could imagine indulging in a fling, but that was about all Fearghal felt he could deal with. _I miss Rory so much._ Fearghal sank onto the bench at the end of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

~o~O~o~

Alistair stood gaping, then blushed, torn between a flare of fury at Zevran that was rapidly followed by embarrassment. Zevran's eyes swept over him and he grinned broadly.

"You're not going to let him get away, are you?"

Alistair looked blankly at the assassin. "Wh-what?"

Zevran looked pointedly at Alistair's towel, where his erection strained against the cloth.

"Well, you seemed to be enjoying that... and so did Fearghal. But unless you wish me to... take care of that for you, maybe you should go after him?" said Zevran, with a leer and a nod at Alistair's groin.

"Take care of... ? No!" burst out Alistair, turning an even deeper shade of red.

"Then what are you waiting for?" asked Zevran.

Alistair looked uncertain. "I don't know what... if... "

Zevran pushed him gently towards the door. "Go after him, Alistair."

Alistair swallowed nervously, then headed out of the door towards Fearghal's room.

Alistair hesitated outside Fearghal's door, hand raised to knock, then decided against it. Instead he opened the door and looked in. Fearghal sat on a small bench, his head in his hands. Alistair slipped inside the room, closing the door quietly. He had no idea what to say. He crossed the room and sat on the bench alongside Fearghal.

Fearghal started as Alistair sat down beside him. He'd been so lost in thought, he hadn't heard him come in.

He lifted his head, sighing. "Alistair. You should leave."

Alistair shook his head. "No. I'm done trying to hide how I feel. I didn't think that you... but you do. If it was just me, it would be different."

Fearghal groaned. "I can't give you what you want. I can't _be_ what you want."

"How do you know what I want?" burst out Alistair. "You're just deciding everything in your head without even asking me!"

Fearghal stood up and turned his back on Alistair, his arms folded tightly across his body. "Then what do you want?" he asked, his voice wary.

Alistair sighed. "I barely know. It's not something I've ever let myself think about much before."

Fearghal's head turned, his face flat. "Then maybe you should come back when you've had time to think it through," he said over his shoulder. He looked away, waiting for Alistair to leave.

Alistair hesitated. If he left now, he'd never get another opportunity like this. He knew how much Fearghal was hurting; he was afraid that if he revealed how he truly felt, it would scare the other man away. Alistair stood and stepped close to Fearghal.

"I-I want to touch you," he said softly, running his hand down Fearghal's back, watching with fascination the visible ripple of muscles his fingers produced.

He felt himself stir as he leaned in and kissed the nape of Fearghal's neck. "I want to taste you," he murmured, as his lips travelled from Fearghal's neck, along his shoulder.

Alistair put his arms around Fearghal and felt him tremble. "I want to hold you," he whispered as his mouth moved up Fearghal's neck and behind his ear. Alistair nibbled Fearghal's ear gently and was rewarded with a gasping moan and Fearghal's backside pushing back against his groin.

"I want to hear you making that noise and I want you to keep doing... that," Alistair said huskily, dropping an arm around Fearghal's belly, pressing hard against him.

A surge of relief ran through Alistair as he felt Fearghal relax against him. His mouth explored Fearghal's ear, neck, jaw, shoulders; his hands roamed over Fearghal's belly and chest. He felt clumsy and awkward, but Fearghal seemed to be enjoying what he was doing. He ran his hand over the fur covering Fearghal's chest, savouring the softness under his hand. A gasp as his fingers brushed over a nipple; Alistair's fingers returned to it, feeling it harden, as his other hand tugged Fearghal's towel loose and it fluttered to the floor. Alistair shuddered with desire and anticipation as Fearghal reached back and tugged his own towel off, then Fearghal's hand were on his hips, his thighs, stroking and pulling him closer. Fearghal writhed in Alistair's arms grinding his backside against the hard erection behind him. Alistair groaned against Fearghal's neck, unable to stop his hips thrusting.

Fearghal spun suddenly in Alistair's arms, grasping his head and kissing him hard. There was so much _hunger_ in that kiss, Alistair went weak at the knees. When he felt one of Fearghal's hands drop and encircle his cock, it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He groaned into Fearghal's mouth, trembling violently. Fearghal's hand stroked and squeezed, and Alistair leaned against Fearghal, burying his face against Fearghal's shoulder, moaning softly.

Alistair desperately tried to make himself last but was undone when he heard Fearghal murmur, "Let go, Alistair." Then he was pumping hard into Fearghal's hand, groaning incoherently against his neck.

Alistair slumped against Fearghal, momentarily drained. "Sorry," he mumbled. He felt, rather than heard, the chuckle rumble through Fearghal. He lifted his head as Fearghal shifted, his eyes going wide as Fearghal gave him a wanton look and raised his hand to his mouth and slowly licked Alistair's seed from it. Alistair flushed; he'd never seen anything so erotic in his life. He looked down, aware suddenly of Fearghal's erection prodding his hip. Alistair had heard plenty of 'dirty talk' amongst the boys at the monastery; things they said women did to men, like taking them in their mouths.

Nervous but excited too, Alistair dropped to his knees.

"Alistair, you don't have to..."

"I want to," asserted Alistair hoarsely. He grasped Fearghal's hips in his hands; he could feel the other man's tension, the slight tremor... of anticipation, he hoped.

Alistair looked down at Fearghal's cock; he could see the drop of moisture glistening at the tip. He lowered his head and dipped his tongue into it. Fearghal gasped and his hips jerked. Encouraged, Alistair swirled his tongue over the head. One of Fearghal's hands ran through Alistair's hair gripping it loosely. Alistair used his mouth to explore Fearghal's full length, gratified at the noises this evoked. Gaining confidence, Alistair took Fearghal into his mouth. Fearghal's self-control started to fray and his hand tightened in Alistair's hair as his hips thrust forward hard.

Alistair gagged and tried to pull back. He felt a moment of panic, then Fearghal withdrew, his hand loosening its grip in Alistair's hair.

"Sorry," mumbled Fearghal. He took one of Alistair's hands and circled it around his shaft. "Like this... "

Alistair nodded and took Fearghal in his mouth again. Fearghal groaned as Alistair pumped him with mouth and hand, his hips matching the rhythm Alistair set. His hand fisted in Alistair's hair as he felt his orgasm build.

Alistair was aware of Fearghal's legs trembling, then his hips bucked and hot, bitter fluid jetted across Alistair's tongue. Alistair experienced another moment of panic, unsure what to do, then swallowed. He drew his head back and Fearghal sank to his knees, his hand still in Alistair's hair. Fearghal pulled Alistair's head forward and kissed him hard, his tongue thrusting into Alistair's mouth. Alistair returned the kiss just as fiercely. Eventually, Fearghal pulled away, breathless and leaned against Alistair, folding his arms round him.

Fearghal leaned against Alistair, holding him close, trying to decide what to do next. He didn't want to hurt his friend; it felt as if their friendship had been hard won and it was still so new, Fearghal didn't want to endanger it. If he sent Alistair away now, it might break it irretrievably. But at the same time, he didn't want to mislead Alistair that this could be more than it was. _And I've missed this._ Selfish, but true; holding Alistair felt so good in a way that holding Zevran hadn't. It wasn't that Alistair reminded him of Rory but that Rory had been the epitome of everything that Fearghal had ever desired in a lover; that Fearghal had loved him had been over and above that.

Fearghal felt Alistair shift. His own knees were aching, Alistair's must be too; the stone floor was only covered in a thin mat. _I should send him away._ Fearghal stood, pulling Alistair up with him, and led him over to the bed, pulling the covers back. While Alistair got into the bed, looking slightly nervous, Fearghal went around the room turning down the rune lights, leaving only the one near the bed burning. He slipped under the sheet and turned to face Alistair.

Alistair was lying on his side, his eyes full of trepidation. _Oh Maker! Is he regretting this already?_ Fearghal realised he was frowning when Alistair's eyes widened with alarm.

"What?" Alistair asked, his voice anxious. "What's wrong?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," replied Fearghal, striving to keep his tone light. "You're lying there, looking as if I'm about to eat you." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Look, if you're having second thoughts, don't feel you have to stay... I don't want you to feel... "

"No! It _is_ what I want! I just... I don't know what to do... what to expect." Alistair flushed and dropped his eyes.

Fearghal reached out and stroked Alistair's cheek, then tilted his chin up and kissed him lightly.

"If you're sure?" Fearghal's voice was soft and low.

"I'm sure." Alistair's voice was equally soft, but insistent.

Fearghal nodded, then rolled onto his back, throwing out his arm, inviting Alistair closer. Alistair shuffled across the bed and laid his head on Fearghal's shoulders. Fearghal felt him relax as he closed his arms around Alistair's body.

"So," he murmured against the top of Alistair's head, "what happened to ' _I'm not like that_ '?"

Fearghal laughed as Alistair turned his face inwards, groaning; Fearghal could feel the heat blazing in Alistair's face against his chest.

"Oh, please! Don't remind me! I really want to forget that conversation ever happened," he said fervently.

"Really though, did you have no inkling?" Fearghal was genuinely curious.

"Well, yes... but I tried not to think of it."

"Why?" Fearghal was astonished. "Even being raised in the Chantry... it's not like they speak against it."

"No," agreed Alistair. "But it wasn't just a Chantry, it was a monastery. We weren't supposed to think about it at all. Any _fraternisation_ amongst the boys was strongly discouraged; if there was so much as a hint of anything improper, they came down on it like a ton of bricks. They used to check our beds for ' _night emissions_ ' as they called them. Any boy who'd... well, you know... they got a strong lecture about self-control and lustful thoughts."

"Maferath's balls!" Fearghal was shocked. "So was there no-one... I mean, did you ever... ?"

He felt Alistair's head nodding. "He was another initiate, a couple of years older than me, though. You...um... you met him at the tower. Cullen."

"You mean the templar imprisoned outside the Harrowing Chamber?" Fearghal cast his mind back. ' _You! Always they show me you!_ ' and then that nasty jibe that had obviously hurt Alistair so much, ' _They used to call you... Lord Alistair._ ' "Did you ever... ?"

"No. I didn't think he knew I was alive." Haltingly, Alistair told Fearghal what had happened in the bath house; that Cullen was one of the few people that had ever spoken up for him. Alistair had nursed his crush in secret until it had finally burned itself out. Then Cullen had appeared in his dream in the Fade, only to be interrupted by Morrigan; he spoke of his shock when Cullen had appeared in that prison in the tower, more the shock at his words, what they implied. Fearghal noted that Alistair said nothing of Cullen's cruel jibe.

"So, afterwards, in the inn, Morrigan made some crack about unrequited love. I thought she meant what Cullen had said but..."

"Yeah, she was getting at me about what she'd seen in the Fade," Alistair mumbled against Fearghal's shoulder.

"The spiteful bitch!" burst out Fearghal. He suddenly felt furious at the witch.

"Huh, she'll have a field day now," said Alistair, trying to make light of it.

"She'd better keep her trap shut. The first smart remark I hear, I'll feed her to the darkspawn!"

Fearghal tightened his arms around Alistair and felt the other man relax against him. What he felt for Alistair didn't come close to what he'd felt for Rory, but he realised how vulnerable Alistair was and didn't want him to be hurt any more than he had been. He heard Alistair's breath slow and realised that he had fallen asleep. Fearghal smiled. He was content to just lie here, holding him. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene in the steam room was inspired by this incredible picture: http://fav.me/d2mv394


	48. Chapter 48

Alistair woke and tried to get his bearings. It took him a moment to realise that he was in Fearghal's room, in Fearghal's _bed_ and that Fearghal himself was wrapped around Alistair like a large human blanket. The last thing Alistair remembered, he had been curled in Fearghal's arms, head resting on his shoulder. At some point, when he was asleep, he must have turned over and Fearghal had followed him. Alistair had never woken up with someone like this; it wasn't unpleasant, just the opposite, in fact, but he was very warm.

Then Alistair remembered; he had woken up like this before, in Lothering. Except that time, he'd woken curled up against Fearghal. He groaned as he remembered his embarrassment, feeling his face flush at the memory. He felt Fearghal stir against him, the large hand that had been resting against his belly moved across his skin.

"What's the matter?" Fearghal's voice was husky and thick with sleep.

"Oh, nothing... I was just... " Alistair's breath hitched in his chest as Fearghal's lips nuzzled behind his ear.

"Just what?"

Teeth nibbled gently at Alistair's ear lobe, making it impossible to think. _Maker! Who knew that ears could be so..._

Alistair twisted his head, the movement pulling his ear away from Fearghal's mouth, earning a disappointed grunt. "I-I can't think straight when you do that," he told Fearghal.

"But you have such nice ears," said Fearghal with a sigh. "Go on, what were you going to say?"

"I was just thinking about that morning in Loo-ooo-oothering." Alistair's voice wobbled as Fearghal's mouth moved down his neck, to the point where it joined his shoulder, and sucked hard. Alistair felt the tension flare in the pit of his belly and couldn't help arching back against Fearghal.

"Ah, _that_ morning, where I woke up to find you cuddling me?"

Alistair could hear the hint of laughter in Fearghal's voice, then Fearghal shifted and he felt warm, hard flesh pressed against his buttock.

"Like this?" There was a hoarse note in Fearghal's voice that sent a shiver through Alistair.

"J-just like th-that," he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Hmmm... a pleasant memory?" Fearghal's lips drifted up the back of Alistair's neck, sending a tingle down his spine.

Alistair chuckled softly. "It was... until you woke up... and woke m-me up."

Fearghal cast his mind back. He'd been hurting so badly at Lothering the only thing he could think to do was try and drown his sorrows. He'd been angry and hungover when he'd woken up to find Alistair wrapped around him. Unfortunately for Alistair, he had been the _last_ person Fearghal wanted to wake up with. Fearghal felt a twinge of guilt; his heart still ached for Rory. He pushed the thought away; it wasn't fair to be thinking of Rory whilst in bed with Alistair.

"Sorry, I wasn't at my best. Maybe I should make it up to you?" murmured Fearghal, his mouth nipping and nuzzling at the back of Alistair's neck, whilst his hand trailed lightly down Alsitair's chest and belly.

"M-make it up to m-me?"

Fearghal felt a shiver ripple through Alistair. _Maker, he's so responsive!_

"I can't pretend it would be a hardship. Not a penance... more of an apology," murmured Fearghal, his mouth moving forwards, under Alistair's ear, along his jaw.

Alistair twisted his head to try to look at Fearghal, but the moment he did so the mouth that was arousing him to such a frenzy of desire was over his own, kissing him. This time, Fearghal's kiss was slow and languorous. Alistair rolled onto his back, relaxing as Fearghal leaned over him. The kiss was soothing and Alistair felt his sense of desperation ease a little, which was just as well. Fearghal had barely touched him, yet he was already rock hard.

As Fearghal kissed him, Alistair felt his hand moving over him, the touch light and teasing. Alistair marvelled that those hands, so clumsy and rough-looking, could have such a deft touch. Fearghal's fingers brushed over Alistair's chest, grazing against a nipple, and Alistair groaned as a jolt of pleasure ran through him. Unthinkingly, Alistair cupped Fearghal's head, pulling it closer. The gentle kissing, while soothing at first, was turning into torture; he wanted more. He moaned again as Fearghal's tongue plunged into his mouth and the fingers returned to his nipple, firmer this time.

A tiny part of Alistair was embarrassed at the series of gasps and moans Fearghal's mouth elicited from him as he thoroughly explored Alistair's body with mouth and hands, but his brain was flooded with too much ecstasy to care. It was a complete revelation to Alistair that it was possible to feel this much pleasure from somebody just touching him; he thought he might die from it.

Alistair felt his hips jerk of their own volition as warm breath blew over his shaft. His fists twisted into the sheet as he struggled to maintain control of himself. He lifted his head and looked down his body; Fearghal was now kneeling between his thighs, bending over his groin. As if sensing Alistair's gaze, Fearghal lifted his eyes. Holding Alistair's gaze, Fearghal bent lower and ran his tongue up Alistair's shaft, then took Alistair in his mouth, enclosing him in wet heat. Alistair's hips came off the bed as his body followed its instinct and he thrust as hard and deep as he could, groaning loudly.

Alistair's vision blurred as Fearghal's mouth moved up and down over his cock, and his head fell back. "Oh, Maker! That's... " There weren't words to describe it, or at least none that he could think of right now. Alistair concentrated his energy on trying not to thrust too hard, remembering how he'd gagged before, but it didn't seem to bother Fearghal. He could feel the tension building behind his balls, but he really didn't want to finish yet, he wanted to make this last as long as possible.

Then Alistair felt a hand on his balls, cupping then squeezing. Alistair heard the strangled moan erupt from his mouth, but couldn't have kept quiet if his life had depended on it. He felt as if he was going to explode; he was in such bliss, it was almost agonising. Alistair came with a yell, thrusting deep into Fearghal's mouth, then lay gasping on the bed. He felt as if every muscle in his body had turned to mush; his bones had simply ceased to exist. Alistair felt Fearghal's mouth withdraw; the air felt cool against his softening cock, then he felt Fearghal press a swift kiss to his groin.

Alistair looked up and saw Fearghal prowling towards him. Fearghal crawled up the bed, over Alistair's body, until he was close enough to lean forwards and kiss him lightly. Alistair was startled at the slightly bitter taste of Fearghal's mouth, realising that he could taste himself. He would have expected to find that disgusting; instead, he felt a flicker of excitement. Fearghal pushed himself up so that he was kneeling, legs straddling Alistair's waist. Alistair's eyes were drawn to the heavy erection that still jutted out from Fearghal's body.

"What do... you want... me to do?" Alistair's breath was still coming in ragged gasps.

"You don't look in any fit state to do anything!" Fearghal grinned, seemingly delighted to see Alistair in such a state. "I'll take care of it," Fearghal told him, still grinning. "You can just lie there... and watch."

Alistair felt his eyebrows shoot up. Fearghal wanted him to watch, while he... _Oh, Maker!_ His pulse rate had only just slowed down to something approaching normal, but he felt it increase again as Fearghal slowly curled his hand around his shaft and started to stroke it slowly.

Alistair remembered two boys having been caught masturbating together at the monastery; he had being baffled as to why anyone would want to do such a thing, but as he watched Fearghal touching himself, he admitted he could see the attraction. Alistair's eyes were riveted to Fearghal's hand as he stroked and squeezed himself, occasionally running his thumb or even his palm over the glistening tip.

Alistair realised that the way Fearghal touched himself was quite different to the way that Alistair did. For Alistair, it had always been something furtive, a release he allowed himself when the urge became unbearable; a perfunctory task to be completed as quickly as possible. Even though it was now almost a year since Duncan had recruited him, it was a behaviour that had continued beyond the monastery.

Fearghal's hand pumped faster and he felt his heart pounding against his chest. He looked down at Alistair, who was watching him with an expression of wonder on his face. _He is so expressive, so open._ Fearghal felt the tension building, knew he wouldn't last much longer, then Alistair's eyes flicked up and the sight of Alistair, flushed with desire rather than embarrassment, eyes dark and intent, sent Fearghal over the edge. He watched Alistair start slightly as he came all over his chest, then Alistair ran his fingers through the streaks of milky fluid and licked them clean.

Fearghal groaned again, then leaned forward and kissed Alistair. "Maker's breath, Alistair! Are you sure you spent ten years in a monastery?" he growled, then flopped onto his back.

Alistair flushed. "Y-yes. Why?"

Fearghal chuckled and nuzzled Alistair's neck. "Because when you do things like that, _looking_ like that, well, you make it very hard to be sensible and catch up on some sleep."

He saw Alistair flush. "I wonder what time it is. It's hard to tell down here."

"I don't know, but it feels late." Fearghal sighed and rolled away, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I suppose we really should get some proper sleep."

Regretfully, Alistair agreed with him. Fearghal reached into his pack and drew out a wash cloth and tossed it to Alistair and, as Alistair wiped his chest clean, Fearghal stood and turned out the last rune light, then slipped back into bed.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal was startled out of a deep sleep by a loud knocking at the door, which then opened to admit a white-haired dwarven woman, bearing two large jugs. She beamed at them and marched over to the dresser, where she deposited the jugs.

"Good morning, Wardens. I'm Runa and I've brought you some water to wash with. I took your clothes from the bathrooms; I'll have them laundered by the end of the day. Breakfast will be ready in half an hour." With that, she turned and left the room.

Glancing at Alistair, who was red-faced and open-mouthed, Fearghal chuckled and made to get out of bed, then thought better of it. Instead, he turned and kissed him deeply. Alistair seemed startled at first, then responded with enthusiasm. Fearghal withdrew only when his stomach rumbled loudly.

"I'm tempted to say 'bugger breakfast' but... I'm starving."

"Me too," said Alistair, laughing.

Fearghal got up and went behind the screen to the ingenious device Thamar had called a _water closet_ , and relieved himself. He pulled the lever and marvelled afresh as water swirled round the pot, washing the waste away. Re-emerging, he crossed over to the dresser; one jug had hot water in it, the other cold. He poured some of each into the large basin until he was happy with the temperature and began to wash. He heard Alistair using the magical-seeming closet and turned to reach for a towel as Alistair came back out, looking a little uncertain.

Fearghal hesitated for a moment, then said, "Alistair, why don't you fetch your pack and leave your things in here?"

Alistair stared at him. "Are you sure? I mean... I don't want to... "

Quite apart from the fact that Alistair looked good enough to eat, standing there naked, Fearghal realised that he'd grown used to sharing a tent with him, used to his comforting presence when the nightmares woke him. It was a little odd to think that he'd been held in this man's arms many times in recent weeks.

"Yes, I'm sure... unless you'd rather... "

"No! I mean yes... I want to... er... I'll get my things." Alistair grabbed one of the towels they'd discarded the night before, wrapped it around his waist and hurried from the room.

It didn't take long until they were both washed and dressed. Although Fearghal had got a head start on his ablutions, he'd dallied while getting dressed, preferring to sit on the bed in his breeches watching Alistair wash instead of getting dressed. Alistair was hovering anxiously by the door when Fearghal was pulling his boots on.

"D-do you think I should go first... or maybe you should?" Alistair's face flushed.

"What on earth for?" asked Fearghal, startled by the question.

"Well... they'll know," mumbled Alistair; he looked away, unable to meet Fearghal's eyes.

"So? It's not wrong. Who cares if they know?" Fearghal felt a flash of irritation. _Damned Chantry! Damned templars!_

He pinned Alistair against the door and kissed him hard, feeling the shiver that ran through him. Fearghal pulled his mouth away, leaving Alistair gasping. "Does that feel wrong?" he asked.

"N-no."

Fearghal dropped his hand, cupping the growing bulge in the front of Alistair's breeches and squeezing. "What about this?" he growled.

"No," gasped Alistair, pressing into his hand.

Fearghal kissed Alistair again, rubbing his groin against him, then reluctantly pulled away. "Breakfast!" he ordered, adding,"Otherwise we'll be here all day."

The small dining room was easy to find, they just had to follow the delicious aroma. He flashed a grin at Alistair and pushed open the door. Four heads swivelled towards them as they entered, faces filled with curiosity.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you will all forgive me for leaving you in the lurch for so long. I was initially side-tracked by DA2, then in early April my father was diagnosed as being terminally ill with lung cancer. After a blessedly short illness, he died at the beginning of May. At the moment, I'm grateful for the distraction that writing NNN provides and now have the energy to concentrate on it.

Fearghal leaned against the sideboard, facing the table, around which Alistair and others sat, having just finished their breakfast.

"Thamar tells me that the Assembly will already be in session. Apparently, since King Endrin died, it's met every day, trying to resolve the succession. Alistair, you and I will attend the Assembly; I think full plate will be in order, ' _dress to impress_ ' as Fergus used to say. Leliana and Zevran, I want you two to explore Orzammar; keep your ears open and see what you can find out about the two candidates. One is Prince Bhelen, the late king's son, the other is a Lord Pyral Harrowmont, former adviser to the king. Wynne and Morrigan, I want you to go to the Shaperate; I'm told it's where all the records are. Find out what you can about the candidates, and anything you could find out about dwarven customs would be useful, too; it's only a matter of time before I put my foot in it."

Fearghal grinned at them all, then left to go and get into his armour. He was pulling his armour and padding out of his pack when Alistair came in.

Alistair started to move towards his own pack, then stopped. "Does the king's son not automatically inherit the throne in Orzammar?"

"Obviously not," said Fearghal, grinning. He looked thoughtfully at Alistair. "You know, it's not so different in Ferelden. I mean, in practice, that's what happens but there has to be a Landsmeet to approve the succession. From what I remember my father telling me when King Maric died, it's a formality but, in theory, an alternative candidate could be proposed."

Fearghal started to pull on his padding. "I know Father was anxious before _that_ Landsmeet; there was a faction that thought Cailan too young and inexperienced to rule, they wanted to put Father forward as an alternative candidate. He wasn't interested, though; he didn't have that kind of ambition and was content to see Cailan take the throne."

"He thought Cailan would be a good king?"

"In time, yes. Besides, Cailan was betrothed to Anora and he would have Loghain and Eamon to advise him." Fearghal smiled ruefully. "Funny how things turn out, eh? Anyway, it's worth keeping in mind, all we have to do is to find a candidate that would be acceptable to the Landsmeet."

Alistair merely grunted, buckling his armour on.

~o~O~o~

Feraghal and Alistair found the Assembly easily enough; it was housed in an impressive looking building at the far end of the main thoroughfare in the Diamond Quarter. The guards at the great doors of the Assembly Chamber seemed to know who they were, and pulled one of the doors open, waving them through with a gesture to stay quiet.

They found themselves in a huge chamber with a vaulted ceiling. From the doorway, tiers of seating dropped down, encircling a wide, paved space at the bottom. The chamber was full to bursting and both factions were yelling loudly at each other about trade contracts. A lone figure stood down on the floor; he seemed to be attempting to bring order to the furious debate that raged around him. The lone dwarf on the floor rapped his large staff on the floor; the sound echoed off the walls as the metal heel of the staff struck the stone floor hard enough to produce sparks.

As the noise abated, the dwarf glared about him at the hotheads seated in the tiers. "Deshyrs, lords and ladies of the Assembly; I've already doubled the guard to prevent violence. Must I summon more?" he demanded to the accompaniment of embarrassed murmuring and shuffling. For a moment, Fearghal believed the dwarf had succeeded in bringing some kind of order to the proceedings until another dwarf leaped from his seat, bristling with indignation.

"Steward Bandelor, Bhelen's sympathisers are tying our hands with trivialities! They may as well open us to the sky!"

"I suggest we put the matter to a vote," offered a richly-dressed noblewoman, rising to her feet.

"And I suggest you have a taste of my family's mace...!" was the enraged response of a third dwarf, who brandished his weapon recklessly, causing those nearby to shrink away from him.

"ENOUGH!" roared the steward, striking his staff against the floor so hard that it broke, just above the metal heel. "The assembly is in recess until the members can regain control of their emotions!"

Fearghal and Alistair flattened themselves against the walls, drawing curious looks, as a stream of irate dwarves jostled and shoved their way out of the chamber, although they were ignored by some who were too busy throwing murderous looks at others. As the chamber emptied, the steward climbed the stairs, muttering, "Stone-forsaken fools, that's the third sodding staff I've broken this week... " He stopped abruptly, as he noticed them.

"I'm sorry. This is the Assembly of the Clans. Only deshyrs and occasional guests of state are allowed in." The steward eyed them coldly.

"We are Grey Wardens, ser. I am Fearghal and this is Alistair."

The Steward rubbed his face tiredly and his expression softened. "Forgive me, I am so exhausted. I completely forgot about the message from the gate guard. I am Bandelor, Steward to the Assembly of the Clans." He gestured to them to follow as he walked through the doors. "Welcome to Orzammar, Wardens. I hope you can forgive our unrest. The loss of our king has hit us hard. Respect for your Order is great, but I'm afraid you won't receive a proper hearing until we have a king on the throne."

"A Blight is coming, Steward," said Fearghal.

"That is troubling, but it will seem distant compared to the empty throne. The assembly is blind to all else." The steward's voice was regretful, but resigned.

"Does this city not care the world is about to end?" Fearghal strove to keep his tone civil, but didn't quite manage to keep the anger from his voice.

The steward didn't seem offended, however; he smiled sadly at them. "This _is_ their world, and it ended when Endrin died."

"I understand, I'm sorry." Fearghal took a deep breath to calm himself. "Is there anyone who has the authority to aid us?"

"I must admit, Warden, I'm at a loss myself. It lies with Prince Bhelen or Lord Harrowmont, and they are slow to trust anyone in these uncertain times."

"Very well. Thank you for your time, Steward." Fearghal and Alistair bowed and made their way out of the Assembly's ante-chamber.

"Maker's cock! Why does it have to be so complicated?" growled Fearghal.

"I suppose we should try and see Bhelen and Harrowmont?"

"I suppose so, although I have a nasty feeling that they're going to say they can do nothing until the succession is secured. We passed the Royal Palace on the way here. Let's go and see if we can arrange an audience with Prince Bhelen, then we can find out where Lord Harrowmont is and see if we can meet with him too."

They were waylaid by a swarthy, shifty-looking dwarf before they had even left the Assembly building. He introduced himself as Vartag Gavorn, ' _top_ ' advisor to Prince Bhelen, and seemed keen for news. Fearghal hid a smile, relieved that someone was showing an interest in why they were in Orzammar. He explained briefly about the Blight and the treaty that obliged the dwarves to provide aid. Vartag was quick to point out that the treaty was with the _king_ , something that Orzammar was lacking.

Fearghal felt his eyes start to glaze over as the dwarf droned on about how sympathetic Bhelen was to their plight, which led to speculation about whether the Blight was indeed a Blight. Fearghal interrupted when Vartag paused to draw breath.

"How can we convince you to help?" he demanded.

Vartag looked startled at Fearghal's directness, then thoughtful. "There might be a way, if you demonstrate to Bhelen that you owe Harrowmont no fealty?"

It was Fearghal's turned to be surprised. _We've only been here one sodding night! How does he think we've come to some sort of agreement with Harrowmont?_

Vartag Gavorn launched into a diatribe against Lord Harrowmont, then Fearghal ears pricked up.

"... but, if a neutral party, a stranger, were to approach certain key members, perhaps with irrefutable evidence of Harrowmont's deception... I'm certain my lord prince would show his gratitude."

"Wait, isn't there someone you can report him to? After all, if, as you say, the evidence is irrefutable... "

"Normally, the Shapers would handle this sort of accusation, but the most important among them, the Shaper of Memories, is related to Harrowmont; his grandfather was Lord Harrowmont's aunt's first cousin."

"I see. Well, as a neutral party, I shall have to consider you request very carefully. _If_ I agree to help you, the Grey Wardens will no longer be neutral and that is not something to be given up lightly."

"I understand, Warden. However, I should make it clear that if you want Prince Bhelen's help, you'll have to show where _your_ loyalties lie."

"I'll bear that in mind, ser. Good day." Fearghal nodded at the dwarf, then strode past him towards the door.

"Well, I suppose that's saved us a trip to the palace," said Alistair as they descended the steps.

Fearghal couldn't help smiling. "True. Ordeal by Royal Flunky will have to wait for another day. Harrowmont next. Let's hope he's more approachable than Bhelen."

The words were barely out of his mouth when they were hailed by a red-haired dwarf with the biggest nose Fearghal had ever seen.

"I had heard there were Grey Wardens here. My name is Dulin Forender, second to Lord Harrowmont, King Endrin's own choice as successor. Word is spreading of a Blight on the surface. It is shameful _we_ are not in a better position to help."

Fearghal felt a surge of hope at the dwarf's words. Maybe, at last, here was someone he could deal with. "I would speak with Lord Harrowmont."

"In ordinary times, Lord Harrowmont would be honoured to meet you," replied Dulin.

Fearghal braced himself, sensing a ' _but_ ' coming.

"Unfortunately, we've already caught more than one of Bhelen's spies approaching Harrowmont under the pretence of friendship, so, I'm afraid I won't be able to take your word. If you want to speak to Harrowmont, you will need to prove he can trust you."

Fearghal wanted to scream in frustration. "Maker's breath, stop playing games! The treaty compels you to help!"

"You're asking the King of Orzammar to send armies to the surface, but Orzammar has no king and _we_ have no army." Dulin allowed his own frustration to surface. "Right now, the men who should be fighting darkspawn are fighting in the street. If this situation isn't resolved, we face civil war! If you want Harrowmont's time now, you'll have to prove you have no intention of turning against him later."

"And what would constitute proof?" asked Fearghal.

"Bhelen is hosting a Proving in two days, supposedly to honour his father's memory. The deshyrs take it very seriously. Unfortunately, Bhelen has found a way to blackmail or intimidate House Harrowmont's best fighters into stepping down. If you were to enter the Proving as Lord Harrowmont's champion, it would prove your loyalty beyond a doubt."

"I'll consider it. I've just explained to Bhelen's man that Grey Wardens are supposed to be neutral and not interfere in politics." Fearghal tried to keep from clenching his jaw.

"Well, don't take too long about it, warden. The Proving is in two days and... "

"I know, but if I'm to be forced to choose a side, I'm not going to rush into my decision! Good day, ser."

Fearghal and Alistair returned to the compound.

"Ugh, let's get out of this plate," groaned Fearghal, rolling his shoulders and heading to their room. He tugged at buckles, scowling. "That was a waste of time! We're no further forward than when we arrived. Worse, it looks like we're going to have to back a candidate and backing the wrong one could be disastrous. So much for being neutral." He shrugged out of the padded tunic, then started to remove the leggings, pulling them down over his hips and sitting on the bench to pull them off; he kicked them away, bad-temperedly.

"So what now? I don't think it's even midday. Maybe we should go and look around Orzammar, see if we can find Leliana and Zevran?" said Alistair.

Fearghal grunted. "I'd probably thump the first dwarf who so much as looked at me funny." He rose from the bench and started to prowl, restlessly. "I wonder if we can enter the Proving in our own right?"

"Hmmm, maybe causing a diplomatic incident isn't such a good idea," said Alistair, grinning.

Fearghal grinned at him. "Indeed. It's just so... " He growled in frustration.

"Why don't we use that steam room? I found it very relaxing yesterday. Well, before... you know..." Alistair grinned sheepishly, blushing.

"Before you seduced me?" Fearghal laughed at the look of shock on Alistair's face and felt some of his tension ease.

"I promise, I shall let you enjoy it, unmolested," promised Alistair, grinning. "It really is amazing. It feels like the heat gets right into your bones and all the tension just melts away."

"I'll go and ask Thamar if it's all right to use it and grab some towels on the way back."

Thamar assured him that the steam room would be ready to use in ten minutes, so Fearghal grabbed some fresh towels from one of the bathrooms and went back to Alistair. He found Alistair lying on the bed, hands behind his head. He looked so tempting that Fearghal was ready to give the steam room a miss. _There are other ways to unwind, after all._ Alistair looked up and saw the towels; grinning, he got up off the bed and pulled his shirt off. Fearghal realised he was staring when he saw Alistair blush and hastily started removing his own clothes. When he reached for his own towel, Alistair was already waiting by the door, a towel wrapped around his hips.

~o~O~o~

Alistair watched Fearghal through half-closed eyes, feeling relaxed and drowsy in the damp heat of the steam room. Fearghal had stretched himself out on one of the benches and Alistair wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep. On the rare occasion when Alistair had watched Fearghal relaxed and sleeping, he was always struck afresh at how young he looked in those unguarded moments. Alistair realised that he didn't know how old Fearghal actually was, but surely he wasn't that much older than Alistair's own twenty years.

He allowed his eyes to roam over the almost naked form of his fellow-warden and felt a flicker of desire. When Alistair had undressed he'd become aware of Fearghal watching him, not bothering to hide his interest. Alistair had felt flustered and embarrassed, unused to being so openly ogled. He'd panicked and wrapped the towel around his hips, hovering nervously by the door of Fearghal's room. _Not just Fearghal's room... our room._ Watching Fearghal dozing on the bench, Alistair was bitterly regretting his lack of confidence. Alistair felt himself grow hard as he imagined exploring Fearghal's muscular body with his hands, with his mouth.

"You look like Bane." Fearghal's head had turned and he was looking at Alistair, grinning slightly.

"I look like your dog?" Alistair was startled at the comparison.

"Mmhm. He looks just like that when there's a tasty bone just out of reach."

"Oh... I... " Alistair cursed inwardly, feeling the heat in his face. He felt foolish. Was he so obvious?

"I'm not complaining." Fearghal smiled, his eyes wandering over Alistair. "You look good enough to eat, yourself. Except I feel like I've melted into the bench; I'm not sure I'll ever get up off it."

Alistair didn't know what to say to that. He desperately wanted to cross the room; it was only a few feet, but it might as well have been miles. He didn't understand why he felt so paralysed.

"Alistair, please don't make me come over there." Fearghal had turned on to his side and was watching Alistair through half-closed eyes, his head propped on his hand.

Swallowing nervously, Alistair pushed himself up from the bench and, in a few swift steps, crossed the room. He saw Fearghal's eyes drop to his groin, darkening slightly at the sight of his erection straining against the thin cloth of the towel. As Alistair crouched down on one knee, Fearghal rolled onto his back, the hand that had been propping his head up rising to brush against Alistair's face.

Alistair felt his eyes close and he raised his own hand to capture Fearghal's, turning his face to kiss the palm. He felt almost as if he was in a dream, as his tongue darted between the thick, strong fingers. He was rewarded with a hum of pleasure as his tongue explored the hand he held, running over tough calluses one moment, soft skin the next. Alistair's mouth wandered over Fearghal's hand, then wrist, kissing and sucking as his other hand began its own exploration of Fearghal's body. Was it possible to be drunk on sensation? Alistair was beginning to suspect it was. He nuzzled against Fearghal's chest, inhaling the faint musky scent, aware of soft fuzz against his face. He felt a harder nub against his mouth and his teeth grazed over a nipple.

His eyes still closed, Alistair was acutely aware of Fearghal's response. He felt the deep moan reverberate through Fearghal's chest, as much as heard it; he could feel the tension in the muscles under his hands, feel the shiver ripple through them. His mouth lingered, tongue swirling around the hard nub, then when he felt Fearghal press upwards, heard him whimper, he closed his mouth around the swollen flesh and sucked hard until Fearghal gasped.

Alistair's hand wandered lazily down Fearghal's body, following the trail of hair under his fingers until it met the towel. Down over the rough fabric, quite different under his hand, until his hand cupped the hard mound beneath it. Alistair felt the vibration of Fearghal's groan through his mouth, still suckling at the nipple. Impatient now, Alistair tugged at the towel, trailing his fingers through the coarse curls. His senses were so heightened, he could smell Fearghal's arousal. He released the nipple from his mouth, licking his lips, then his mouth followed his hand, rushing to catch up.

Alistair buried his face in Fearghal's groin, breathing in the heady masculine scent of musk, arousal, sex. Aching with desire, Alistair was torn between succumbing and drawing the experience out. He slipped a hand between Fearghal's thighs, stroking higher and higher, feeling Fearghal thrust against him. He cupped Fearghal's buttock, pulling him even closer.

"P-please, Alistair. You're killing me!" Fearghal's voice was hoarse, the words choked, as if dragged out.

Alistair felt a flare of triumph and opened his mouth, sucking on the hard flesh that was pressed against it. He felt it leap and twitch against his face and his own erection throbbed in response. He explored every inch of Fearghal and when he took the head into his mouth he wasn't sure whose groan was the loudest. He lapped at the liquid pooling there, dipping his tongue into the small slit, then lowered his mouth over the quivering flesh. His hand meandered over taut buttocks, trembling with tension. He felt Fearghal shift and a heavy leg draped over his shoulder. Alistair opened his eyes and looked up. Fearghal was gazing down at him, his eyes dark, his lips parted as he gulped in harsh, jerky breaths.

Alistair's fingers brushed over the creased ring of muscle between Fearghal's buttocks and Fearghal arched, thrusting deep into Alistair's throat as his head fell back. Taking this as encouragement, Alistair let his fingers drift backwards and forwards over the puckered flesh, revelling in the ecstatic groans that poured from Fearghal.

"Up on the shelf... there's oil, I think."

It took Alistair moment to process the words, so intent was he on what Fearghal's body was telling him; he felt like he'd reached a place beyond language. He lifted his head reluctantly from Fearghal's cock.

"Oil? What for?" Alistair looked up at Fearghal, puzzled. Fearghal was flushed and breathing heavily.

"For your fingers. And... " Fearghal's eyes dropped to Alistair's groin, where his erection made a tent of the towel still wrapped around his hips.

Alistair felt his heart hammering against his chest, a flutter of panic rising in him. _Oh, Maker! He wants me to..._ And Alistair wanted to, but...

"I-I've never... I don't know what to do."

"I know. Oil... on the shelf."

Alistair reluctantly disentangled himself from Fearghal and stood up, his eyes searching the shelf. There were several bottles and jars of assorted unguents and oils. He plucked down a bottle of golden oil and pulled the stopper out, sniffing at the contents.

"On your fingers... coat your fingers with it." Fearghal sounded hoarse and breathless.

Alistair crouched down by Fearghal again and poured some of the oil into his palm, then set the bottle down and spread the oil over his fingers with his other hand.

"Are... are you sure about this? I'm frightened I'll do something wrong... h-hurt you." Alistair felt his ardour rapidly cooling in the face of his nervousness.

Fearghal's hand snaked up, pulling Alistair towards him in a bruising kiss. "If you don't nail me to this bench, I'll never forgive you," Fearghal growled as he released him.

The want in Fearghal's voice re-ignited Alistair's desire. He returned his hand to the cleft between Fearghal's buttocks and he trailed kisses down the thick throat presented to him as Fearghal's head rolled back.

"One finger at a time."

Alistair felt almost as if he heard the words through his mouth. After a moment's hesitation he inserted a finger, feeling the muscle tighten around it momentarily, then relax.

"Move it... more..." gasped Fearghal, thrusting against him.

Alistair felt his breath catch at the note of desperation in Fearghal's voice and eagerly complied. He was rewarded with a shuddering groan. He took a moment to register the silky heat wrapped around his fingers, then realised that Fearghal was murmuring something.

"Forwards.. hook your fingers forwards."

Alistair did, feeling something slightly rougher against his fingers. The effect on Fearghal was instant and immensely gratifying; he arched off the bench, moaning, grinding down on Alistair's fingers. Alistair shuddered, imaging for a moment what it would be like to be buried in Fearghal.

Alistair found himself pulled into a hungry kiss that made his head swim. Unthinkingly, he pushed another finger inside Fearghal, confident now that he wasn't hurting his lover. _My lover... my love..._ The words swirled around in Alistair's mind, making him growl with need.

"F-Fearghal... I want to... I want you." Alistair barely knew how to express what he wanted.

He felt Fearghal shift, then the bottle of oil was in Fearghal's hand and he was tearing away the towel from Alistair's hips. Alistair bucked as Fearghal's hand, slick with oil, grasped his cock, stroking it.

"Um... I'm not sure of the best way to do this," admitted Alistair, withdrawing his fingers from the grasping heat of Fearghal's body.

"Astride the bench," rasped Fearghal.

Alistair rose and sat astride the bench, shuffling closer, until Fearghal's legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer. He shivered with anticipation as the head of his cock bumped against Fearghal's backside.

Biting his lip, frowning in concentration, he reached down and lined himself up, then pushed. He hesitated, feeling the resistance.

"Keep going. If you stop now, I'll kill you." Fearghal's legs tightened around his waist.

Alistair closed his eyes and pushed, hearing himself groan as he felt resistance give way to soft, enveloping heat. He shuddered, trying to shut out the indescribable sensation washing over him. It was almost too much. If he moved, he'd come. After a few moments he felt calmer and opened his eyes to see Fearghal staring up at him, a look of pure bliss on his face. He wondered if his own eyes looked as dark.

Alistair leaned fowards, bracing his hands on the bench, at each side of Fearghal's neck, then kissed him. The gentle kiss soon became fiercer as Alistair's instincts took over and he rolled his hips tentatively. Fearghal groaned and thrust back at him. Trembling to restrain himself, Alistair pulled back and looked down. The sight of his cock buried in Fearghal undid him. Growling, he thrust hard into the body below him. Fearghal bucked beneath him as Alistair felt that rough patch brush over his cock. He adjusted the angle of his hips slightly and thrust again. Fearghal's back arched and his legs gripped Alistair tighter.

Alistair felt something feral and possessive take hold of him as he saw Fearghal grasp his own cock and start pumping. Almost snarling, Alistair braced himself on one hand and with the other, swatted Fearghal's hand away. Alistair's hand was still slick with oil and slid easily over Fearghal's cock in time to the rhythm of his hips as they snapped back and forth, driving into Fearghal again and again. Alistair could hear groaning, but couldn't tell if it was him or Fearghal, then he felt Fearghal pulse in his hand and milky fluid spurted from between his fingers across Fearghal's belly.

Alistair felt Fearghal's whole body shudder and tighten around him and felt the last remnants of his self-control fray out of existence as he pounded into Fearghal, spending himself deep inside of him, groaning, then collapsed on his chest, panting. Strong arms enfolded him and he felt the bristles of Fearghal's beard, then the soft press of lips against his forehead. Smiling into Fearghal's shoulder, Alistair realised that nothing had ever felt so _right_.

Alistair felt Fearghal shift under him, grunting slightly, and realised he must be getting uncomfortable. Alistair braced his hands against the bench and pushed himself up. He couldn't help smiling at the disappointed noise from Fearghal, who rapidly followed him. He suddenly felt shy, unsure what to do. He watched as strong fingers reached out and stroked down his belly, brushing through the sticky seed drying there.

"I think we need a bath. Those big stone tubs look big enough for two. That's if I can trust you not to molest me; it seems that every time I come in here, you jump me." There was a hint of laughter in Fearghal's voice.

"I did not jump you! Well, not this time, anyway." Alistair knew he was grinning like a fool, but couldn't help it.

Alistair got up from the bench and stooped to retrieve their towels, handing one to Fearghal. He fastened his own towel around his waist and was about to turn towards the door, when he was pulled against Fearghal's chest and kissed tenderly. He melted in Fearghal's arms and time seemed to stand still until the door flew open.

"Thamar said you were... Oh, I beg your pardon, Wardens." Zevran didn't sound at all contrite.

Alistair groaned and buried his face against Fearghal's neck. He felt the heat flare in his face. He couldn't bring himself to turn and bear Zevran's brazen scrutiny, and he just knew it would be brazen.

"It would appear that I am destined to ever interrupt you sampling the pleasures of this delightful steam room. Maybe you should just invite me next time, yes?"

Alistair froze. He hoped Zevran was joking, but suspected he wasn't. He felt Fearghal squeeze him gently.

"Did you need something, Zevran, or did you just come to ogle?"

"Well, I just came to let you know that Leliana and I were back. She has been busy shopping and wanted to drop off her purchases. The chance to observe two such beautiful men was a bonus."

"Shopping?"

Alistair could hear the astonishment in Fearghal's voice and, his embarrassment forgotten, he turned to look at Zevran. He immediately regretted it when warm brown eyes swept over his body and Zevran licked his lips. Eventually, Zevran dragged his eyes away from Alistair and looked at Fearghal, shrugging.

"It really is quite illuminating just how much information she can wheedle out of merchants whilst exclaiming over ribbons and gee-gaws. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know we'd called in and see if there was anything else you needed."

Fearghal grunted. "We were just about to take a bath."

"Oh? You need some help with this? Would you like me to scrub your backs?"

Alistair felt his face flush afresh as the elf grinned lasciviously at them.

"I think we can manage, Zev," retorted Fearghal drily.

"Ah, well, back to ribbons and doodads for me."

Alistair almost laughed at Zevran's exaggerated disappointment as he sighed and slipped out of the door.


	50. Chapter 50

Fearghal sat back in his chair as Thamar and Runa cleared the table. He waited until they were finished and had left the room before leaning forwards and relating what had come of his and Alistair's visit to The Assembly.

"It's completely deadlocked and I can see no way to change that. We were approached by representatives of both Prince Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont. They are both so suspicious that each is demanding _proof_ of our neutrality before they will even meet with us. Grey Wardens are supposed to be politically neutral but it's looking more and more like we will have to pick a side to break the deadlock. Orzammar will only fulfil its obligations under the treaty once it has a king."

"So, Leliana, Zevran, how did you get on today?" asked Alistair.

"Oh, we had a wonderful time, Fearghal. I found the most amazing shoe shop. Of course, they had nothing to fit human feet, but they can make shoes to measure too, so I ordered a pair and picked out the most beautiful leather. It was so soft; it hardly felt like leather at all."

Fearghal stared at her and tried to think of something to say, then Leliana grinned at him and giggled.

"We also found out that Dwarves are very opinionated and love to share their opinions."

Fearghal sighed with relief and relaxed back into his chair, ignoring the muffled snort that came from Alistair's direction. He chuckled softly. "So they were happy to talk about Lord Harrowmont and Prince Bhelen?"

"Oh, indeed. Lord Harrowmont was King Endrin's most trusted advisor, by all accounts. He was the only person present when the old King died and has always maintained that the late King was insistent that his son, Bhelen, not be allowed to take the throne."

"If, and it's a big if, Harrowmont's word is to be trusted, why would King Endrin not wish his son to inherit?"

Leliana paused to sip her wine. "Prince Bhelen is the youngest of three brothers. His oldest brother, Trian, was murdered by the middle son, Duran. Duran was banished to the Deep Roads, essentially a death sentence. In fact he was not just exiled but completely disowned and removed from Orzammar's records; officially, he never existed."

"And unofficially?" Fearghal leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table, intrigued.

"Unofficially, Duran denied killing his older brother, claiming that Bhelen was behind the murder and had framed him. There has been a lot of strong feeling because Duran should have had a trial before The Assembly, and his sentence should have been decided and approved there. No-one knows why, but that never happened. Instead, King Endrin issued the order privately and instructed Lord Harrowmont to see it done."

"Is there any way to know if Bhelen did kill his brothers?" Fearghal grimaced with distaste; he couldn't imagine wanting to kill his own brother.

"None at all." Leliana shrugged and sipped at her wine. "Strangely, no-one seems appalled at the possibility that Bhelen may have killed one brother and engineered the death of another. Apparently Dwarven politics are a cutthroat affair. What worries them more is the fact that there was no public trial and that Harrowmont was a party to that. It has made a lot of people very suspicious of him. That, coupled with the fact that there is only his word that the late king didn't wish his only surviving son to inherit. Of course, feelings may be different amongst the nobility; we only spoke to merchants and some of their customers who became involved in the discussion, and the merchants have their own reasons for wanting Bhelen to take the throne."

"What do you mean?" Fearghal reached for the bottle of wine and poured some into his own goblet.

"Wynne and Morrigan will be able to tell you more about it, but the Dwarves have a rigid caste system. Harrowmont is a traditionalist; he wishes things to continue as they have done now for hundreds of years. Bhelen, however, is much more progressive. The merchants believe that this will open up trading opportunities and, ultimately, make Orzammar richer and stronger. The few we spoke to who would see Harrowmont on the throne are not appalled at Bhelen because he's suspected of killing his rivals for the throne; if anything, that impresses them; it is more that they are resistant to the changes that Bhelen is proposing."

Wynne and Morrigan spent the next hour outlining what they had learned in the Shaperate. Fearghal found himself marvelling that while Morrigan had not had the benefit of a formal Circle education, she was adept at analysing the information that she and Wynne had gathered; unlike Wynne, she was blessedly concise and kept to the point. She outlined how the Dwarven caste system worked, how it was virtually impossible for anyone to work outside of the system, about the complicated inheritance of caste and what the implications were for anyone unfortunate to be born 'casteless'.

Zevran interrupted at this point, to tell of how he and Leliana had ventured a little way into the area known as Dust Town, where the casteless, the Dusters, lived. Fearghal was startled to see how Zevran's face twisted with disgust as he described the squalor and poverty they had observed.

"I have seen many Alienages and would scarcely have believed that there are worse places to live. Dust Town is well named, Warden. Its people live in the dust and even that dust has more value than their lives."

Fearghal found it unnerving that the normally easy-going, urbane elf was displaying his feelings so openly. Everyone sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, digesting what Zevran had told them.

Fearghal frowned as he recalled what Bhelen's man had said. "Wynne, we were told that the Shaper of Memories is related to Lord Harrowmont. The implication was that he would be biased against Bhelen. Do you think there's any truth in that?"

"I gather that all dwarves hold their clan affiliations very dear, Fearghal; on the other hand, most dwarves seem to be related to each other in some way. Inevitable in such a closed society, I suppose. The Shaperate also hold all their genealogical records. I could return tomorrow and find out if it's true."

"Thank you." Fearghal paused for a moment, thinking. "Tomorrow, the rest of us will show our faces out and about the city. I'd like us to take a closer look at Dust Town, and just explore the city generally. I think that Alistair and I need to see more of Orzammar for ourselves if we are expected to make a decision between the two candidates for the throne."

Fearghal stood and made his way to the door. As he opened it, there was the sound of muffled banging from deeper within the compound. His face brightened.

"Ah, that will be the locksmith."

"You hired a locksmith, Warden?" Zevran didn't try to conceal his surprise.

"For Duncan's office. No-one has a key."

"Tut-tut. You could have asked me."

Fearghal grinned, remembering Zevran's fumbling in Logain's office. "Really, Zev?"

"Or Leliana." Zevran had the grace to look abashed.

"I know, but I don't think either of you could have fitted a _new_ lock, hence the locksmith." He looked across at Alistair, jerking his head. "Come on, let's go and take a look."

~o~O~o~

Fearghal and Alistair sat at each side of the plain desk, steadily working their way through the small pile of papers in the middle of it. Fearghal stifled a yawn. So far there had been nothing of any great interest, mostly accounts and some correspondence. He hadn't realistically expected to find a 'Manual of Grey Warden Secrets', but had hoped that there might be some information on how to perform a Joining, a recipe, maybe. All Alistair knew was that it required darkspawn blood and other ingredients. He looked up as Alistair grunted.

"Look at this." Alistair pushed a piece of parchment at him.

Fearghal picked it up and started to read. It appeared to be a response to a request by Duncan to recruit from among the casteless in Dust Town and was dated about six months previously, if Fearghal's reckoning of the Dwarven calendar was correct. The respondent acknowledged that the Grey Wardens did retain the Right of Conscription _at this time_ , however it hinted strongly that the relationship between the Grey Wardens and Orzammar might need to be 're-evaluated' if the Grey Wardens insisted on recruiting from 'the dregs of Dwarven society'.

It went on to explain that Grey Wardens were held in the highest esteem in Orzammar and to be seen actively recruiting from the 'lowest of the low' could seriously damage their reputation and credibility. It went on to point out that those casteless who wished to fight darkspawn, and they were few, could join The Legion of the Dead. Fearghal looked at the name at the bottom of the letter. Lord Pyral Harrowmont.

"Well, that makes his position pretty clear." Fearghal tossed the letter onto the desk. "I wonder what The Legion of the Dead is; it sounds decidedly unpleasant."

"And he's not above threats to get his own way, either," pointed out Alistair. "He's not exactly a friend to the Grey Wardens unless it suits him, not if that letter's anything to go by."

Fearghal picked up the remaining pile of papers and shuffled through them, scanning them quickly, then throwing them down on the desk.

"There's nothing of any use here, nothing about Bhelen at all. If the man really did kill his brother... brothers... I'm not sure I want to ally myself with someone like that. I didn't like his man, Gavorn, at all."

"Well, after reading that letter from Harrowmont, I don't trust him either," retorted Alistair.

"No." Fearghal sighed, then huffed a soft laugh. "Nan used to have a saying about being as bad burnt as scalded, I can't think of a better way to sum up our situation." Fearghal smiled thinking of the fierce woman who'd been his nurse and gone on to be in charge of the kitchen at Castle Cousland.

Fearghal came to with a start, realising he'd been staring into space, lost in memories. Alistair was looking at him, across the desk, his face a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Let's sleep on it... or something. We don't have to make a decision right now." Fearghal grinned meaningfully at Alistair and was rewarded with a blush before a flustered Alistair started scooping up papers from the desk. Fearghal waited until Alistair had gathered the documents and took them from him, dropping them into a drawer. They left the office and Alistair locked the door behind them.

Fearghal heard the key rattle in the lock, noting the tremor in Alistair's hand, the flush on the back of his neck. He smiled to himself, amused by Alistair's hesitancy. He suspected it would take a while for Alistair to gain in confidence, although Alistair had already shown that passion lurked under his uncertainty. A shiver of anticipation ran through him and as Alistair turned, Fearghal pinned him against the locked door and kissed him. He felt Alistair freeze, then relax into the kiss, returning it with enthusiasm as he recovered from his surprise. Fearghal crowed inwardly as muscular arms came up and held him close, pulling him even closer, holding him firmly. Oh yes, there was definitely a deep well of passion underneath Alistair's shy exterior.

Fearghal tore his mouth away from Alistair's and set about exploring his jaw, his neck, smiling at the breathless whimpers this elicited. He felt Alistair shift so that one of his thighs was between Fearghal's legs. Fearghal heard his own groan join Alistair's as they ground against each other. There was no mistaking the fact that Alistair's desire matched Fearghal's own.

"F-Fearghal... we should... not here... someone might... " Alistair's gasping protestations were interrupted by the sound of feminine voices.

Fearghal felt Alistair tense and struggle to push him away. Feeling a perverse flicker of irritation at Alistair's obvious embarrassment, Fearghal resisted. For a moment he thought Alistair might actually start scuffling with him.

"Oh!"

Fearghal turned his head to see Leliana and Wynne standing at the end of the corridor. Leliana grinned at them, apparently unperturbed, whilst Wynne pursed her lips disapprovingly.

"We were just on our way to bed," explained Leliana cheerfully.

"So were we." Fearghal couldn't help grinning back at her, especially when he heard the strangled groan from Alistair.

Leliana nodded. "Good night, Fearghal. Good night, Alistair."

Wynne merely folded her arms across her chest and nodded.

"Goodnight, ladies," said Fearghal. Alistair's farewell was unintelligible.

As the women disappeared, Fearghal relaxed against Alistair only to be shoved away. Fearghal sighed as Alistair stalked towards their room. Fearghal followed, suddenly anxious that he'd pushed Alistair too far. Alistair threw the door to their room open and marched inside, turning to face Fearghal as he closed the door quietly behind them.

"Was that really necessary?" Alistair's voice was low, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

"I think it was." Fearghal's voice was a low as Alistair's but he was struggling to hold on to his temper.

"Really? Putting on an exhibition for Leliana and Wynne was necessary? All you had to do was step back!" Alistair's voice was rising.

"So... what? They wouldn't know that we were kissing?" Fearghal knew he was shouting now, but was past caring. "You are _not_ a Templar and _I_ am not your dirty little secret! You wanted this, and I won't lie, I want it too. I won't be ashamed of it; I refuse to hide it and pretend to everyone else that it's not happening. If you're ashamed of it then maybe you need to reconsider what you do want."

One look at Alistair's stricken face filled Fearghal with remorse.

"It's not... I-I just... I do want this!" Alistair's voice was filled with panic as he struggled to find the words to express himself.

It took Fearghal only a moment to close the distance and pull Alistair close. "I'm sorry. I know why you... I do understand." He felt relieved when Alistair returned his embrace. He struggled to bring some order to his thoughts. "You just seem so embarrassed by it and... it struck a nerve."

Fearghal was horrified to find himself on the verge of tears, his thoughts full of Rory. The wrenching sense of loss was as strong as it had ever been. He shouldn't be thinking of one man whilst in the arms of another. As Fearghal struggled to master his feelings, he felt Alistair pull away slightly.

"Fearghal?"

Fearghal blinked furiously, keeping his head down.

"This is something about Rory, isn't it?" While Alistair sounded hesitant, there was no accusation in his voice. Fearghal could only nod and was astonished when Alistair hugged him close again.

Fearghal battled with his grief for several long moments before surrendering to the comforting embrace and allowing his sorrow to surface. As he cried against Alistair's broad shoulder, a part of him acknowledged the absurdity of grieving so openly for the loss of one lover in the arms of another. As on previous occasions, Alistair merely held him close, rubbing his back, making comforting noises.

Eventually, the storm of crying subsided. As it did, Fearghal started trying to apologise.

"I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from." Fearghal tried to pull away, but Alistair refused to let him go.

"Don't. I know you loved Rory. I.. I don't expect you to stop loving him any more than I'd expect you to stop loving your family."

"I know, but... " Fearghal pulled away and, this time, Alistair let him go.

Fearghal sat on the bed, wiping his face on his sleeve. Alistair shuffled awkwardly, then came and sat next to him.

"So... what struck a nerve?" asked Alistair.

"When I told my parents about my feelings for Rory... they were prepared not to push me into an arranged marriage, but they asked me to be 'discreet' about our relationship." Fearghal sighed, leaning forwards, resting his forearms on his knees. "It didn't seem like an unreasonable request, but it quickly became... unbearable. It seemed stupid, everyone knew."

Fearghal paused, thinking back to how it had been. "I used to watch Fergus and Oriana and sometimes I resented them." His voice softened. "They loved each other so much and didn't have to hide it, but Rory and I did. He couldn't eat with us, I couldn't be seen to show anything that might be construed as favouritism, he was excluded from any kind of family gathering or social occasion. I used to have to wait until everyone was asleep to sneak him into my room at night and then he'd have to leave before the servants were up. I hated it."

Alistair leaned against Fearghal, one of his hands seeking out Fearghal's, clasping it tightly. "I'm sorry. I-I'll try not to be such a... 'Chantry virgin'.

Fearghal gave him a sidelong glance and was relieved to see a sheepish smile tugging at Alistair's lips. He couldn't resist. "Well, you're not a virgin any more. And I promise I won't ask you to fuck me on the table at breakfast or anything so extreme."

He was rewarded by a deep red blush that reached from the roots of Alistair's hair and disappeared down beneath his shirt. As Alistair turned dark, startled eyes towards him, Fearghal wasn't sure if embarrassment or lust was responsible for the flush on Alistair's skin.


	51. Chapter 51

_Alistair couldn't suppress a shudder as a firm hand grasped him and started to stroke. He leaned into the side of the neck against him, inhaling the heady, masculine scent. He didn't recognise the room he was in but the body against his was familiar. Fearghal. His hands roamed over the muscular body, savouring the strength he could feel in the tightly coiled muscles. Intoxicated, Alistair felt an upsurge of emotion as he was carried away on a tidal wave of desire. "I love you, Fearghal," he murmured into the solid neck. "Maker, I love you so much." The hand grasping him squeezed and Alistair couldn't stop himself from thrusting into the delicious friction. He heard himself moan loudly. He tried to stifle the sound, slightly embarrassed at the noises Fearghal always managed to wring from him, but it felt so damned good, he couldn't stop; he didn't care who heard him._

~o~O~o~

Fearghal watched Alistair's eyes flutter open, apparently woken by the volume of his own moaning. He couldn't suppress his smirk as he watched the range of emotions flicker over Alistair's handsome face; desire, embarrassment, confusion, then, finally realisation. Alistair shifted slightly, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of his own cock and Fearghal's bound together by the firm grasp of Fearghal's large hand.

"Good morning." Fearghal couldn't keep the shit-eating grin off his face.

"G-good mornnn... " The rest of Alistair's greeting was lost in a husky moan as Fearghal thrust into his own hand, rubbing himself along Alistair's length. "Oh, M-Maker, that's so... "

The sight of Alistair's face, his eyes dark with desire, lips parted as his breath came in hoarse gasps, sent a thrill coursing through Fearghal. He leaned forward, unable to resist the lure of the tip of Alistair's tongue as it flicked over his upper lip. Fearghal soon found himself groaning into Alistair's mouth as he felt the other man start to thrust into his hand.

Fearghal tried to make himself last but Alistair's enthusiasm, his hungry desire, eroded what little self-control Fearghal had left. _He's like a starving man at a feast._ Alistair's release followed moments after Fearghal 's, accompanied by a wrenching groan that ran through Fearghal, all the way to his toes.

Fearghal rolled on to his back and Alistair nestled his head against his shoulder, his eyes drowsy with pleasure. Fearghal tried to shut out the words that Alistair had murmured just before he surfaced from sleep; he tried to tell himself that he had misheard Alistair's almost incoherent mumbling. There had been no mistaking the sound of his name, though. _Alistair was dreaming; it means nothing. He's never been with anyone before and fancies himself in love, when it's really lust._

Fearghal sighed. He liked Alistair a great deal; it was a friendship that had become very important to him in a short space of time. But he didn't love him. His heart still belonged to Rory and he couldn't imagine how that would ever change. He felt a pang of guilt. He found Alistair extremely attractive and, although inexperienced, he was an enthusiastic lover. _Am I taking advantage of him? He loves me... or thinks he does..._

Fearghal's musings were interrupted by a loud knock. Before he had a chance to reply the door opened and Runa bustled in bearing two large jugs.

"Good morning, Wardens." She beamed at them before crossing the room to set the jugs down. "Breakfast will be about twenty minutes. I would have brought your water earlier, but you sounded busy." She headed towards the door, turning before she drew it closed behind her. "Still, I reckon you'll have worked up quite the appetite." She winked at them and was gone.

Fearghal stared after her. Remembering the argument he'd had with Alistair the previous night, he glanced warily at him. Alistair was staring at the closed door, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Fearghal watched as Alistair visibly pulled himself together and looked back at him, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.

"Did she... was she... while you... we were...?"

Alistair looked so appalled, it was comical. Fearghal tried to stifle a wild desire to laugh, but the harder he tried not to, the more he wanted to. An undignified snort of laughter erupted from him and he saw Alistair's lips twitch. The sight was all the encouragement Fearghal needed; he stopped trying to fight it and howled with laughter. Alistair merely rolled his eyes at Fearghal's mirth and got up, heading to the water closet.

~o~O~o~

It was hours later that a dejected group consisting of Fearghal, Alistair, Leliana, Zevran and Morrigan trudged through The Commons. Each one of them was appalled in their own way at what they had found in Dust Town. The little that Zevran and Leliana had told them following their brief foray hadn't really prepared them for the utter hopelessness that was Dust Town.

They had glimpsed the dark underbelly of Orzammar even before arriving at Dust Town. Leliana had disappeared into a small shop in The Commons which, apparently, had been closed the day before. The others had followed her, hiding their smiles, or in Morrigan's case, rolling her eyes and sighing loudly. They were a little disconcerted to find they had walked in on what appeared to be open extortion. A group of dwarven thugs surrounded the shop keeper, reminding him that his 'security payments' were due; one of them toyed with a crystal decanter, letting it drop to the floor when the terrified shop-keeper had protested that, due to the succession crisis, business was dire.

Fearghal had growled and started towards the group of thugs only to stop as the wide-eyed shop-keeper had turned to him, frantically shaking his head. The thugs had pushed past them, sneering, and it was all Fearghal could do to hold on to his temper. It was only the shop-keeper's silent entreaty and the memory of the warning they'd received from the guard on their arrival to 'keep their place' that stayed his hand. While Fearghal's temper cooled, Leliana murmured sympathetically to the shop-keeper, drawing forth information about the Carta. As far as Fearghal could tell they were a gang of thieves, possibly worse, working out of Dust Town.

As they explored Dust Town, Fearghal started to understand why the casteless turned to crime. After a brief skirmish which they saw off easily enough, they were left to explore unmolested. Word had spread quickly and most of the dwarves in Dust Town vanished as they saw them coming; Fearghal was beginning to despair of finding anyone who would be willing to talk to them. Not that the squalor that surrounded them needed much explanation, but he did want to find out if these wretched people had any opinion on Harrowmont or Bhelen.

Eventually, they'd come across a beggar who only spoke to them because she was crippled and couldn't get away quickly enough. Although wary at first, she'd relaxed when Fearghal had offered her a few silver for a hot meal, if she would just answer some of their questions. At the prospect of an easy meal, she'd become quite chatty. The woman, Nadezda, had told them that she used to be a runner for the Carta until she'd been caught by the Orzammar guard, who'd broken her legs.

"You used to work for the Carta? But they're... " Alistair stumbled to a halt, realising he'd been about to say something the woman might take offense to. He'd been surprised when she'd laughed.

"Criminals? Sure they are, gorgeous, but they're the only way to eat in Dust Town. No-one out there will employ us," Nadezda told him with a contemptuous nod in the direction of The Commons.

When questioned about Bhelen and Harrowmont she'd merely laughed again.

"What do I know or care of princes and lords? The only thing anyone in Dust Town is interested in is what we can filch off 'em."

When Fearghal had slipped the coins into the woman's filthy hand, she'd grabbed his arm. "Give me a hand up, handsome."

Fearghal had helped her carefully to her feet and handed her the crutch. It was almost painful to watch the woman struggle to move on her crippled legs. She'd hobbled a little way then called out to someone. An anxious-looking young woman holding a baby had emerged from a nearby hovel. Nadezda spoke to her, then handed her the money and took the baby off her. They had watched as the woman struggled to make some progress on her crutch, clutching the baby to her chest. In the end, unable to watch any longer, Leliana had rushed forward and offered to carry the baby.

They had all fidgeted impatiently until Leliana re-emerged, some fifteen minutes later. They were all a little taken aback when she returned on the verge of tears. All except Morrigan.

"Well, well. The cripple has told you a sob story and you have fallen for it hook, line and sinker."

Even Morrigan was astonished when the normally good-tempered Leliana rounded on her.

"You... you... _salope_! That young woman's baby is wasting away because she cannot feed herself properly and is unable to nurse him. And all because she refuses to abandon him in the Deep Roads."

At their shocked exclamations, Leliana explained that although the baby's mother was of the Smith Caste, the baby's father was casteless. When the baby boy was born he had abandoned them both. The young woman's family had thrown her out when she refused to abandon her baby.

"When Wynne and I studied the Orzammar's caste system, I had not realised all the implications it might have, in practice." Morrigan looked embarrassed before clearing her throat and continuing, "It seems a wasteful system for a people whose birth rate is so low."

The others looked at her, saying nothing, allowing her to save face. None of them had ever heard Morrigan apologise for anything.

By the time they left Dust Town, they were all thoroughly depressed, each lost in their own thoughts, struggling to make sense of what they'd seen. Fearghal halted outside the Proving Ground.

"Let's go and see what we can find out about this Proving tomorrow."

The guards at the doors eyes them warily, but allowed them to pass without protest. Inside, there were clusters of people dotted around the large hall; most seemed to be in heated discussions relating to the merits of various contestants.

On enquiring about who to speak to, they were pointed in the direction of the Proving Master. The jovial white-haired dwarf eyed them astutely, his expression turning to something akin to glee.

"Well met, Wardens."

"You know we're Grey Wardens?" Fearghal eyed the Proving Master warily.

"Well, it's all over the city that the Wardens are back in Orzammar and you're the only humans I've seen in almost a year. Who else would you be?" The Proving Master's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Did you want to enter the Proving?" he asked hopefully.

"Can we even do that?" Fearghal was still unsure that fighting in the Proving was a good idea, but after what they'd seen in Dust Town, he dearly wanted to smash his shield against a few dwarven nobles' heads. _Or their champions, they probably wouldn't lower themselves to fight._

"Sure you can. We dwarves love to watch a good fight! We ain't picky about who fights, as long as they put on a good show."

"Oh? Are the casteless allowed to enter?" asked Fearghal innocently.

The Proving Master looked scandalised at the suggestion. "D-dusters in a Proving?" he spluttered indignantly.

"Sorry, my mistake. Forgive me, ser. Your ways are still very new to us, I didn't mean to give offence." Fearghal smiled benignly as he spoke the lie.

"Hmm, none taken," grumbled the Proving Master. "So, would you like to dedicate your contest to anyone? The Proving is in Prince Bhelen's honour."

"Can we dedicate it to the Grey Wardens?" Fearghal glanced at Alistair, who nodded back at him.

"You could do that." The Proving Master reached for a ledger.

"Very well. Alistair and I will enter and dedicate our contests to the Grey Wardens who fell at Ostagar." Out of the corner of his eye, Fearghal saw Alistair's start of surprise.

"Now, Warden...? The Proving Master looked at Fearghal expectantly.

"I'm Fearghal. This is Alistair."

The Proving Master entered their names into his ledger, then looked up at them. "There will be a couple of rounds of single combat and, if you win those, you'll go through to the paired combat. You want to fight together for that or will you each pick seconds, assuming you both get through?"

"We'll fight together, if that doesn't make organising things difficult for you."

"Not at all, Warden Fearghal. I should be able to shuffle things around a bit to accommodate that." The Proving Master peered down at his ledger, clearly already working it out. He looked up at Fearghal and Alistair. "If you get through _that_ , then the last contest is a team event, four a side."

"Would we be allowed to include a mage in our team?"

The Proving Master looked startled, then thoughtful. "It's never been done, but there's nothing in the rules against it, so, yes, you can include a mage, if you wish." He chuckled. "We have no magic in Orzammar, that would be an interesting fight to see!"

"Very well, thank you. We'll see you again tomorrow." Fearghal bowed and turned to leave.

"Oh, Warden! One last thing. You are allowed to bring an assistant, someone to watch your gear, patch you up, if necessary, that kind of thing."

Fearghal tried to keep his face impassive, merely nodding, then beckoned the others to follow him. He could hardly wait for the Proving.

~o~O~o~

Leliana scrambled off the bed at the soft knock on her door. She was surprised to see Alistair standing there, smiling sheepishly at her.

"I just wanted to see if you were all right, Leliana. I know it upset you in Dust Town today and you were so quiet during dinner, I... well, you know... " Alistair shrugged at her, blushing slightly.

"Come in, Alistair." Leliana stood back, holding the door open wide.

Alistair settled himself in the chair, waiting patiently while Leliana sat herself, cross-legged on the bed.

"It is silly of me. I saw Dust Town yesterday with Zevran, it was just that young woman and her poor baby... " Leliana stopped, biting her lip, trying to hold back the tears that welled up when she remembered.

 _Leliana looked down at the infant in her arms. She hadn't spent much time around such young children, but she knew a baby shouldn't look like this. The babe in her arms looked elderly. Coarse skin stretched too thin across the bones of its face. The baby didn't stir, just stared at some point above her with dull eyes. Leliana loosened the ragged swaddling and felt tears spring to her eyes when she was confronted by stick-arms, tiny wrists, fragile fingers too weak to furl around a proffered finger._

 _Leliana followed Nadezda into the hovel, too upset to notice the grime, the fusty smell. The crippled beggar sank heavily into a rickety chair and nodded to the other one, indicating Leliana should sit._

 _"Zerlinda won't be long. Sit yourself down."_

 _Leliana lowered herself cautiously onto the low chair, unsure it would bear her weight. It creaked alarmingly, but held and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief._

 _"Zerlinda is your daughter?"_

 _"What? No, girl!" Nadezda's bark of startled laughter gave way to a more sombre look. "All my young 'uns ended up like that poor little mite. I tried to tell Zerlinda that leaving him in the Roads would be for the best, like her Pa wanted, but she wouldn't listen. But then he's her first and I never listened when I had my first either. I was runnin' with the Carta when I had my second, so it was easier, but after him, I made sure I didn't have any more."_

 _Leliana stared at the woman in horror. "Y-you mean the Deep Roads?"_

 _"S'for the best," said Nadezda brusquely. "If she'd done that, her Pa wouldn't have kicked her and her casteless babe out of his house."_

 _"But why would he throw them out?"_

 _"You really haven't been here long, have you, girl?" Nadezda snorted. "The babe's father was casteless and so his son is, too. If Zerlinda had had a daughter, well, then she would have been Smith Cast, like her Ma."_

 _"So where is he now? The child's father, I mean."_

 _"Huh, when Zerlinda dropped a son, the father dropped her like a hot brick. Told her he was going to try his luck among the Cloudheads. Zerlinda refused to give up her babe, so she ended up here. She doesn't have a clue how to survive here and... well, I felt sorry for her. My first was a girl and I like to think that if she'd survived she might have grown up like Zerlinda." Nadezda stared off into the distance, then pulled herself together with a grunt._

 _"She wouldn't have, of course. She'd have ended up running with the Carta or on the game. This place sucks the good out of people; there's no hope here. Still, maybe once he's... you know... maybe her family will take her back. I'll be sad to see her go... she's a good girl."_

 _Leliana almost jumped out of her skin at a movement behind her. Zerlinda had returned. She set the food down on the table and reached out to Leliana for her son. Leliana handed him over, feeling humbled by the look of love on Zerlinda's face as she cradled her son, murmuring quietly to him. She nodded at the two women, unable to speak, and fled the hovel._

"It just seems so wrong!" Leliana told Alistair. "I can't stop thinking of them. It's not just that they're poor, I've seen poverty before, but this is beyond that. It's like Nadezda said, there's no hope there."

Leliana buried her face in her hands briefly, then looked back at Alistair's troubled face with a sigh. "I know we can't fix it, but thank you for listening, _mon ami_."

"I'll speak to Fearghal about it, see if there's something we can do to help. I know Bennet's cousin in Denerim gave him the name of a contact here. I'd better go and find him. We need to decide which candidate we're going to back."

Leliana thanked him, then watched him leave. It didn't feel enough to only help one person, but it felt like a start and Zerlinda weighed a little less heavily on her heart.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal looked up as Alistair came into the office. "Where've you been? I was looking for you earlier."

"I went to talk to Leliana. She's still upset about that woman in Dust Town." Alistair sat down opposite Fearghal and peered at the piece of paper in front of him. "What are you doing?"

Fearghal screwed up the piece of paper and threw it at the wall. "I was trying to make a list of pros and cons for each candidate and not getting very far. Maker's cock, Alistair! Why can't anything be straight-forward? I was talking to Wynne. It seems that the Shaper of Memories _is_ related to Lord Harrowmont. He's actually related to every noble house in Orzammar, including the Aeducans. He's even more closely related to Bhelen than Harrowmont."

Fearghal leaned back in his chair and watched the realisation dawn on Alistair's face. "Oh, I see."

"Indeed. The only reason I can think of for Bhelen not wanting to show those documents to the Shaperate is because they're not legitimate."

"And if he's lying about that..." Alistair groaned. "Ugh. I really don't want to back Harrowmont, but... "

"Well, you've told me more than once that Duncan used to say ' _by any means necessary_ '. From a Grey Warden point of view, does it matter who is on the throne? All we need is their army."

"You can't mean that!" Alistair looked furious.

"No, not really. I just don't like the thought of backing a man we know to be a liar and possibly worse, and thought you might like it even less than I did." Fearghal's mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"Well, at least we know he's a liar. That has to count for something, right?" In spite of his words, Alistair looked unconvinced.

"Maybe. And while I don't think that his motives for wanting to integrate the casteless into dwarven society are purely from the goodness of his heart, at least he wants to tackle the problem. He has to know that he's going to meet a lot of resistance. So, we back Bhelen?"

"Bhelen," agreed Alistair.

Fearghal stood and pushed back his chair. "I'll send Zevran to meet Bhelen's man in the morning, find out exactly what he needs us to do."

"You don't think we should go ourselves?" Alistair stood and followed Fearghal out of the office.

"If Bhelen is only prepared to communicate through intermediaries, then I think we should follow suit. Two can play at that game." Fearghal locked the office door, then looked at Alistair and grinned. "Time for bed?"


	52. Chapter 52

Fearghal caught Alistair's eye and grinned as the crowd in the Proving Ground roared its approval. Both men bowed in the direction of the balcony where the Orzammar nobility were seated, then made their way to the small gate at the edge of the arena.

Once back at the quarters they'd been allocated, Fearghal was relieved to see that Zevran had returned in time for the final bout.

"How did it go, Zev?" Fearghal loosened his armour, allowing Morrigan to check for any concealed injuries. He was bruised, and not a bit battered, and grunted with relief as Morrigan's soothing magic eased the worst of his aches and pain, rejuvenating him slightly.

"Ser Gavorn was not pleased to see me in your stead, but was unable to argue. He has given me the documents and details of who they are to be delivered to. I took the liberty of establishing the whereabouts of the recipients; one was easily found, in a tavern in the Commons, but the other is leading an expedition into the Deep Roads. We should be able to catch them up, they only left yesterday and are not venturing very far, by all accounts."

Fearghal nodded and started tightening the buckles on his armour. He looked across at Alistair, who was standing patiently as Wynne's hands glowed, weaving healing magic. He saw the strain leave Alistair's face and Wynne stepped back.

"All set for the last bout?"

Alistair nodded and set about adjusting the straps on his armour. Fearghal looked around at the others.

"The last bout is a team event. Me, Alistair...Zevran and Morrigan, I think."

~o~O~o~

As they faced the other team, Fearghal saw the knowing looks they cast at Morrigan, the smug grins. He hid his own smirk. He was well aware that dwarves were naturally very resistant to magic. He eyed up the four dwarves as they all waited for the Proving Master to finish his lengthy introduction to the final bout, then leaned slightly towards Morrigan.

"The archer. Start with him." Morrigan gave no sign she'd heard him, but Fearghal was sure she had.

At the signal to begin, Alistair and Fearghal charged forwards to engage their opponents. Out of the corner of his eye, Fearghal saw the archer backing up to get some distance; he also so the grease slick that appeared behind the unsuspecting dwarf. Fearghal turned his attention back to the dwarf that seemed intent on taking his head off.

The crowd roared with laughter as the archer's feet slid out from under him, dropping him on his backside. The man scrambled, trying to regain his feet, providing further entertainment with the frantic windmilling of his arms as his feet slid in completely different directions. After a few moments, gravity won out again, dumping the dwarf heavily on his arse. Zevran was cheered and whistled as he sauntered over to the unfortunate archer, who was lying on his back, winded after another unsuccessful attempt to get to his feet. Grinning, Zevran disarmed the man, who could only lie there blinking stupidly at him. Zevran threw the weapons out of the dwarf's reach, then bowed to the crowd before returning to the fight.

Morrigan exploited the fact that while the dwarves were resistant to magic, their gear wasn't. She heated their armour up until it began to glow. The dwarves' thick under-padding afforded them some protection from the blistering heat, but they began to perspire heavily; she froze the sweat on their skin until they were covered in a thick layer of frost. It didn't handicap them greatly, but it did distract them. They cast anxious glances at Morrigan, wary of what torment she might come up with next. It didn't take Fearghal, Alistair and Zevran long to disable and disarm them.

The crowd was on its feet, cheering and applauding, as the Proving Master dedicated their victory to the fallen Grey Wardens of Ostagar.

~o~O~o~

It was late in the afternoon when they returned to the Warden compound. Lord Helmi had been located in the tavern Zevran had pointed out as they left the Proving Ground. He took the proffered document from Fearghal with knowing eyes and Fearghal took his leave as soon as was politely possible.

Lady Dace had been willing, eager even, to change her families vote based on the papers provided by Bhelen, but it wasn't her decision. The head of her house, her father, was indeed in the Deep Roads. She offered to provide them with the necessary permit to enter the Deep Roads and Fearghal had to be content with that, plus a badly drawn map.

At the compound they were greeted by a beaming Thamar and Runa. Fearghal couldn't help but smile; he got the impression they would be basking in reflected glory for weeks to come. By the time he and Alistair reached their room, his good spirits were restored; the delight and enthusiasm of the dwarven stewards proved to be infectious. He started tugging at the straps and buckles of his armour, keen to rid himself of the heavy plate. He could feel his muscles starting to ache.

Fearghal glanced at Alistair, watching him wince as he pulled his armour off. "I think a hot bath is in order before dinner?"

Alistair nodded, rolling his shoulders before he started pulling off the thick under-padding.

"We'll need to be away early in the morning. It doesn't look as if the Aeducan Thaig is very far into the Deep Roads, but I'm not sure how accurate the scale on the map is." Fearghal started to pull off his own padding.

"Who do you want to take with us?" Alistair arranged his armour neatly on the stand.

"I'm not sure we should take anyone with us, except Bane of course. He's bitten so many darkspawn he's practically a warden too."

"Are you sure that's wise?" asked Alistair.

"No. But I think it would be positively foolish to expose any of our companions to the taint. It's bad enough that they run the risk when fighting darkspawn on the surface. We've been lucky that we haven't run across many darkspawn up there, so far. The risks will be much greater in the Deep Roads." Fearghal paused, rubbing his hand over his face. "To be honest, I'm not sure it's a good idea for us both to go into the Deep Roads. Like you said in Denerim, there's only the two of us left and if anything..."

"Are you out of your mind?" Alistair looked aghast at the idea.

"Well, if I went with Bane..."

"There's no way you're going down there on your own with just a dog!" yelled Alistair

"But... "

"No! No buts... I accept that the risk to the others is unacceptable, but you're not going into the Deep Roads alone."

Fearghal sighed, then nodded. It was obvious that Alistair wasn't going to budge and, in truth, Fearghal was glad of it. "Very well. You, me and Bane. Now, let's go and bathe. Judging from the delicious smell, dinner's almost ready."

Alistair eyed him warily for a moment, as if he didn't believe Fearghal had given in so readily, then relaxed. He grabbed a freshly laundered shirt from the pile left by Runa and followed Fearghal to the bathrooms.

~o~O~o~

Alistair felt heavy-eyed the next morning. He knew how stubborn Fearghal could be and had half convinced himself that Fearghal would somehow sneak away while he was asleep. Even after their vigorous love-making, he had slept lightly, waking at every slight noise or movement.

He stumbled around their room, stuffing things into his pack. The others hadn't been happy when greeted with the news that he and Fearghal would be venturing into the Deep Roads alone but had grudgingly accepted Fearghal's decision, seeing the sense in it. Alistair propped his pack against the wall by the door and, yawning, headed towards the dining room and breakfast.

Fearghal was already there, looking disgustingly bright-eyed and alert, Alistair observed grumpily. He was surprised to see Wynne there too. She was sitting in front of a large pile of potions and poultices. She looked up as Alistair grunted a greeting, frowning, as he slumped heavily in front of a bowl of something that resembled porridge. He perked up considerably when Wynne sent a stream of rejuvenating magic his way and set about his breakfast with gusto.

Within the hour they were passing through the great doors into the deep roads. Alistair felt his heart sink at the resounding clang that echoed through the tunnel as the doors were closed behind them. He glanced at Fearghal, who was looking around curiously. Alistair stared about him, surprised at how bright the light was. They had been told that most of the rune lights still functioned in this section of the Deep Roads, although they both carried torches in their packs, just in case they had to venture into side tunnels.

Thamar and Runa had both proved knowledgeable about what they might need; Alistair supposed they had helped the many Wardens prepare for such a journey. They had been able to tell them a little about what to expect; the darkspawn were not the only creatures to inhabit the Deep Roads. It had ended up in an interesting discussion about the Blight and how it was a respite for Orzammar, whose inhabitants waged a constant war on the darkspawn, and had done so for hundreds of years.

The tunnel ahead of them was broad and high, lined with dressed stone. As they started slowly along the road they both stared at the carved reliefs set into the walls, illuminated by rune lights much larger than the domestic ones at the compound.

"Can you sense any darkspawn?" Alistair had been anxious that his senses would be overwhelmed by the sheer number of darkspawn down here, instead he sensed nothing.

"No, nothing." Fearghal frowned. "I suppose it's as Thamar said; they are all heading towards the surface, or towards the Archdemon, wherever it may be."

"Well, the main horde appeared down South, in the Korcari Wilds. Duncan and the others seemed to think there was a good chance the Archdemon would appear at Ostagar."

They'd come to a large junction and Fearghal pulled the map out, then turned in the direction they needed to go. "All the better for us then. It's this way; let's go."

Alistair reckoned it must have been late in the day when the subterranean landscape changed. The broad road opened out into a massive cavern. Ruined buildings were dotted about, increasing in density as they ventured further into the cavern. He saw Fearghal's head come up and stopped, listening carefully. The noise of fighting ahead of them, faint but distinct, had them both running, pulling their shields off their back and drawing their weapons.

Following the noise, they emerged from a narrow street into a wide square. In front of them, a band of dwarven warriors battled a swarm of... well, Alistair wasn't sure what they were, lizard-type creatures, but there were lots of them and the dwarves were struggling to fend them off. Alistair grinned as he heard Fearghal's familiar battle cry, then launched himself into the fray, just a moment behind Fearghal.

The arrival of the two wardens turned the tide and the creatures were finally vanquished.

"What were those things?" asked Fearghal, surveying the corpses that littered the ground.

A white-haired dwarf wearing ornate armour stepped forwards.

"They are deepstalkers. You pulled us out of a tight spot, my friends, and you have my gratitude for it. I am Lord Dace." He bowed to them both.

Lord Dace was furious when he discovered the reason the Wardens had sought him out and eager to use his vote in support of Bhelen. He offered to accommodate them in his camp and the following morning they all set off together, back to Orzammar.

At the compound they were welcomed with open relief by their companions. Alistair was surprised to find it was only mid-afternoon; he'd lost all track of time. Zevran was dispatched to meet with Bhelen's second to give him news of their success and arrange a meeting with Bhelen the following day. Fearghal disappeared into the office with Leliana and Wynne, arousing Alistair's curiosity, but the lure of a hot bath called more strongly. Alistair would ask Fearghal about it later.

~o~O~o~

Fearghal returned to their room feeling clean and refreshed. The trip into the Deep Roads hadn't been as unpleasant or as hazardous as he'd feared, but there was something fusty about the atmosphere that had clung to his skin and armour; he was relieved to be rid of it. He grinned at the sight of Alistair sprawled on his back on the bed, eyes closed. Fearghal tip-toed further into the room, setting his things down quietly.

"I'm not asleep," mumbled Alistair drowsily.

"Just inspecting the back of your eyelids?" Fearghal chuckled; Alistair might not have been asleep, but he wasn't far from it.

"That's it exactly!"

"And are they all right?" Fearghal sat down on the bed, next to Alistair, unable to resist trailing a finger down the skin at the top of his chest, exposed by the partially laced shirt.

Alistair's eyes flew open at the contact, then he smirked. "I can't tell, it's too dark to see."

Fearghal snorted with laughter. "Smart arse," he muttered, then leaned over to kiss Alistair lightly before sitting up again. "I'll let you get back to your inspection." He made to stand up.

Alistair's hand grasped his arm. "It's really not that interesting. I can always do it later."

"You had something else in mind?" Fearghal saw the blush creep into Alistair's cheeks, accompanied by a sheepish grin.

Alistair's hand fell away as Fearghal leaned over him again. Fearghal pulled at the laces on Alistair's shirt, exposing more skin.

"I... well... " Alistair's voice hesitant.

Fearghal gazed at him, torn between being amused at Alistair's coyness, and being baffled by it. Alistair's eyes were dark with desire; what he wanted was clear. Yet, he was still unwilling, or unable, to ask for it. Apart from that first time, Alistair never made the first move, always waiting for Fearghal to initiate sex, but he was keen and ardent when Fearghal did. Fearghal _did_ understand why, and they hadn't been lovers for long, but he had expected Alistair to loosen up a little, to feel comfortable enough to initiate things with a kiss or a caress, however small; instead he seemed to find it as hard as ever to say what he wanted, or to even indicate that he wanted anything at all.

"Yes, Alistair?"

Alistair continued to stammer until Fearghal lowered his head, kissing the hollow at the base of his throat. Fearghal felt the tension ease out of the body beneath him. Fearghal ran his hand down over Alistair's chest, then down, tugging it free of his breeches.

"This is what you had in mind?" he asked, teasing.

Alistair gasped as Fearghal slipped his hand under his shirt, stroking the warm skin. Fearghal raised his head and looked into Alistair's eyes.

"Tell me what you want, Alistair." He saw the panic flare in Alistair's face. "I understand why you're uncomfortable in front of other people, but surely it's different when we're alone?" His hand moved down until he was cupping the growing bulge in Alistair's breeches; he felt Alistair thrust up against his palm. He watched as Alistair dropped his gaze.

"Why is it so hard? And I don't mean this." Fearghal smirked as he squeezed Alistair's cock through the rough cloth.

"I-I... don't know. I-I've never... and I d-don't know the words... or at least, only... you know, but it sounds so ... dirty." Alistair closed his eyes.

Fearghal couldn't help laughing, but tried to stifle it when Alistair's eyes flew open again. "Well, it _is_ dirty I suppose, but in a good way." He hesitated, then continued, "Talking dirty can be part of sex too." He laughed again at Alistair's dubious expression. "Besides, I don't want to have to guess what you want all the time. _I_ want you to be able to tell me what _you_ want."

Fearghal sat up. "I want to spend the rest of the afternoon in bed with you. Is that different from what you want?"

"No." Alistair's voice was little more than a croak.

"Good." Fearghal stood up and started pulling his shirt over his head. He looked down at Alistair as he tossed his shirt onto a chair. "This will be much easier if you get undressed, too." He knew he was smirking as Alistair scrambled off the bed tugging at his shirt, but couldn't help it. Fearghal stripped off his breeches and small clothes, then lay on the bed, head propped on one hand, watching Alistair undress.

Fearghal let his eyes roam over Alistair's heavily muscled torso, feeling his desire awaken; he couldn't imagine ever getting tired of looking at Alistair. _He's so beautiful._ He felt his cock harden as Alistair pulled of his breeches and underwear all in one piece. His eyes were drawn to Alistair's heavy, semi-erect cock and his hand moved to his own, stroking gently. He looked up at Alistair's face, saw the expression of mild shock mingled with embarrassment, saw the desire too in dark hungry eyes.

Alistair lay on the bed next to Fearghal, his eyes flicking from the sight of Fearghal stroking himself, to Fearghal's face, then back again.

"Tell me what you want, Alistair."

"I-I... " The panic was back in Alistair's eyes as he choked on the words.

"You've done it before."

"That was different!" Alistair flopped onto his back.

"Maybe," conceded Fearghal. He laid his hand on Alistair's chest. "Look, I don't want to make a huge thing out of it, but really, I _do_ want to know what you want. I don't want to always have to make the first move. I don't want to worry that if you can't say what you do want, you can't say what you _don't_ want."

Fearghal was relieved when Alistair turned into him slightly. "You're a passionate man, Alistair. Don't lock yourself away." He leaned over and kissed Alistair gently, savouring the kiss and the shiver it prompted. "Tell me what you want, Alistair."

He saw something flicker in Alistair's eyes before he looked away.

"Well, there... is s-something." Alistair flushed and Fearghal could feel the tension under his hand.

"Tell me," murmured Fearghal, exploring the hard line of Alistair's jaw with his mouth.

Fearghal felt the shuddering intake of breath as his hand moved lazily over Alistair's chest.

"I... well, I've... you know... you," Alistair jerked his head at Fearghal. "I-I want ... you to...to..." Alistair's eyes were wide as he watched Fearghal, blushing furiously.

Fearghal was bemused. "This is one of those conversations where I have to fill in the blanks, right?" He grinned. "Over the last few days, you've done a lot of things to me. How about I make a list and you stop me when I'm right?"

Alistair groaned. "I don't think I can do this. I..." He started to move away.

Fearghal pressed him to the bed. "You _can_ do it, Alistair. What's so difficult? I know you were raised in a monastery, but... "

"I don't know! All of it! No-one's ever... what I want has n-never b-been... "

Fearghal was horrified to see tears well up in Alistair's eyes. He pulled Alistair into his arms, holding him tightly. He felt tears drip onto his chest and was a little taken aback at how quietly Alistair cried, how restrained he was.

"It's all right for you to want things," murmured Fearghal against the top of Alistair's head.

"I-I've always wanted things, but n-no-one was ever interested in what I wanted before. Redcliffe, th-then the m-monastery. I was just told what was expected of me." Alistair stirred, wiping his hand across his cheek.

"What about the Grey Wardens? That was something you wanted, wasn't it?"

Alistair nodded. "I did, but... I was conscripted because Duncan wanted me in the Grey Wardens. It wasn't about what _I_ wanted at all." He went quiet for a moment. "Actually, that's probably not fair. I was desperate not to become a templar and couldn't hide how thrilled I was at the possibility of becoming a Grey Warden."

"I know all this is new to you, Alistair, but trust me when I say you need to be able to tell me what you want. The other path just leads to resentment and grief all round."

Alistair sighed. "I can see that. What you said before... it makes sense."

"Tell me what you want, Alistair," said Fearghal softly. He felt the tension return to Alistair's body, the deep breath the other man took.

"I-I want... you... to... to... Oh, Maker, why is this so difficult?" Alistair's chest heaved. "Iwantyoutofuckme." Alistair shuddered as the words tumbled out.

Fearghal felt the fire build in his belly and his cock stir at Alistair's words. It wasn't what he'd expected. Not that he didn't want to, but he'd been wary of pushing Alistair into too much too soon; Alistair was so inexperienced, he didn't want to overwhelm him

"You want me to fuck you?" He was sure he hadn't misheard, but wanted to double-check.

Alistair nodded. "Yes."

"Say it again...slowly." Fearghal's voice was low and husky. He shifted so that he could see Alistair's face. "Please."

Alistair blushed, lowering his eyes. "I-I want you to... f-fuck me." His eyes returned to Fearghal, wary and hopeful. "Unless you d-don't want to. I mean... "

"Oh, I do," breathed Fearghal. Fearghal was already hard and his heart was beating a tattoo against his chest at the prospect. A thought struck him. "Are you sure? I mean, I don't want you to feel that this is something you _should_ want."

Fearghal felt Alistair relax. "I _am_ sure. You look like you enjoy it so much, I want to know what it's like."

"All right. Some men hate it, so promise me that if you're not enjoying it, you'll tell me."

Alistair nodded.

Fearghal sat up and stretched over Alistair, fumbling in the small dresser at the side of the bed until he found the bottle of oil they'd pilfered from the steam room and set it within easy reach.

Fearghal felt Alistair shiver and looked down at him, his eyes were fixed on the bottle of oil. "Say it again," he growled.

Alistair's eyes snapped to his face, then he started to look away again.

"Look at me and say it again." Fearghal felt so breathless with anticipation, he could hardly speak himself.

Alistair's eyes met his again. "I want you t-to f-fuck me," he gasped.

Fearghal groaned and kissed him hard. He felt Alistair start, then kiss him back. Fearghal's hands roamed over the hard muscles beneath him, fondling, stroking, caressing. Fearghal wanted to take it slowly, but it wasn't easy; a part of him wanted to devour Alistair, to take him greedily. He forced himself to slow down, tearing his mouth away from Alistair's, laying gentle kisses along his jaw, under his ear, down his throat.

Taking his time, Fearghal lavished his attention, with mouth and hands, on Alistair's body, delighting in the moans and gasps this produced. Sucking hard on a nipple, he lifted a hand and grabbed the oil, taking it down the bed with him as he worked his way lower and lower. He paused to drizzle some oil onto his fingers and looked up to see Alistair gazing back at him, his expression somewhere between anticipation and apprehension.

Not taking his eyes off Alistair's face, Fearghal lowered his head and ran his tongue along the length of Alistair's cock, before taking him fully in his mouth. Alistair's head fell back as his hips bucked. As Fearghal's mouth worked on Alistair's cock, his hand cupped his balls; then he worked his hand back, stroking the sensitive skin of his perineum before brushing over the puckered muscle that lay beyond it.

Fearghal let his fingers move back and forth until he was sure Alistair was comfortable with what he was doing, then he slipped a finger inside him. He felt Alistair tense immediately, the muscle clenching around his finger. He didn't try to move it, instead concentrated on pleasuring Alistair with his mouth. Gradually he felt Alistair relax around him, and pushed the finger deeper, seeking out that special spot. When he found it, rubbing his finger over it, Alistair arched off the bed, groaning.

Fearghal raised his head, delighting in the look of pure bliss on Alistair's face. He thrust gently with the finger, grinning as Alistair started to babble and thrust back.

"Maker's breath, that's... that's..." The rest of it was lost in an incoherent moan.

Fearghal inserted another finger. This time, Alistair barely flinched. Fearghal started to thrust more forcefully, feeling his own cock twitch in anticipation as Alistair bore down on his fingers. Fearghal scissored his fingers, and as he felt Alistair loosen around them, inserted a third.

Alistair whimpered and moaned. "Fearghal... please... I-I... "

Fearghal moved so that he was kneeling between Alistair's thighs. Slowly he withdrew his fingers, then reached down for the bottle of oil.

"Tell me what you want, Alistair."

Alistair raised dark eyes and, with only a hint of a blush, stammered, "I-I want you t-to f-fuck m-me."

Fearghal poured some oil into his palm and set the bottle down, then slowly stroked his hand over his cock, coating it with oil. He watched Alistair's face intently, as always when Alistair watched Fearghal touch himself his eyes were hungry and just a little bit guilty. It was a beguiling mixture that fascinated Fearghal.

Fearghal set his hands against the backs of Alistair's thighs, pushing them up towards his chest; he grabbed a pillow and settled it under Alistair's hips.

Fearghal cast his mind back to his first time, trying to remember what had made it easier. "Take a deep breath and breathe out slowly. This will be uncomfortable at first, try not to tense up."

He waited until Alistair started to exhale, then slowly entered him, pushing steadily until the head of his cock was past the tight muscle. He paused, wanting Alistair to get used to the sensation before he pressed on.

"Breathe, Alistair, and try to relax. I'm not going to go any further until you say." Fearghal stroked Alistair's thighs, smoothing some of the tension out of them. "Does it hurt?"

"N-no. It f-feels strange, like you said... uncomfortable. G-go on."

Fearghal carefully pressed on, fighting his desire to thrust hard. He leaned forwards, bracing his hands by Alistair's shoulders, angling his hips, trying to find the right angle. He knew he'd found it when Alistair moaned and thrust against him.

Fearghal pulled back a little then thrust back into Alistair. He could feel Alistair relaxing, could see the anxiety leaving his face. Fearghal kept his thrusts slow and shallow, watching Alistair intently. When Alistair started to rock against him he picked up the pace, gradually going deeper, faster.

"M-Maker, that's ..." Alistair groaned and opened his eyes, seeming almost startled to see Fearghal leaning over him.

Fearghal braced himself on one hand and grasped Alistair's cock, grinning as his eyes briefly rolled back in his head. It was an effort to hold back; the look of ecstasy on Alistair's face made him want to abandon his self control, to pound into him mercilessly.

"M-more..." gasped Alistair, thrusting into Fearghal's hand.

"More what?" Fearghal couldn't help grinning.

"I-I don't know," said Alistair with a soft huff of almost-laughter. "I just want -m-more."

Fearghal was more than willing to oblige and stopped trying to hold back. His hips snapped back and forth as he thrust hard; at the same time, his fist pumped Alistair and had him arching off the bed groaning. He gave himself over to his desire and fucked Alistair, all restraint gone. He groaned as Alistair yelled, coming hard. As Alistair's muscles tensed around him, squeezing him, almost unbearably tight, Fearghal buried himself as deep as he could, giving himself up to his own release.


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter and the next sitting on my hard drive for about 2 years, in the vain hope that I'll get my act together and finish this story. I have no idea if that will ever happen, so I might as well publish them. As always, thanks to WellspringCD for beta duties.

"No." Fearghal was gratified to see the brief shock on Bhelen's face, before he assumed his mask again. "In your own words, ' _there are no guarantees_ '. The Carta exists because Dust Town exists; it's a problem you have created for yourselves, you solve it. The Carta is the only means of existence those people have. If you get rid of it this week, something new, and possibly even more desperate, will replace it next week."

Fearghal stood. "We have already compromised our neutrality, your highness; we will not be used to solve your domestic problems. Either the dwarves will honour the treaty or they will not. We have no time to waste on a fool's errand." Fearghal bowed and turned, ready to leave the room, not even looking to see if Alistair followed him. He'd taken just two steps, when Bhelen's voice rang out.

"Wait. You want guarantees?"

Fearghal turned, waiting for Bhelen to continue.

"There might be a way..."

" _Might_? Not good enough, your highness." Fearghal regarded the prince coldly.

"Oh, the uncertainty is not whether it would be enough, it's whether you would succeed, Warden."

Intrigued, Fearghal returned to his seat. "What are you getting at?"

"What do you know of the Paragon Branka?" Bhelen leaned forwards.

"Nothing." Fearghal shrugged. "But I know Paragons are greatly revered."

"Branka is a woman of the Smith Cast who rose to nobility for her brilliant inventions. Two years ago, she left everything behind to venture into the Deep Roads to search for something that was lost to the smiths of Orzammar centuries ago. She is the only Paragon in four generations and she turned her back on all her responsibilities. A Paragon is like an ancestor born in this time. If she returned, her vote would outweigh the entire Assembly. Anyone with her support could take the throne unchallenged." Bhelen was unable to hide the longing in his voice.

"What makes you think Branka's still alive?" Fearghal thought it was a long shot; the woman had been in the Deep Roads for years.

"She had an entire house with her, dedicated to her protection. With the number of ruins still intact, they could last for a long time," explained Bhelen. "And Harrowmont is looking for her as well. It's too risky to assume she's dead, only to have him take the credit for finding her."

"What makes you think she will support you as king?" Fearghal's mind was working furiously. If this Paragon supported Harrowmont, well, Fearghal supposed he could abide by her decision. After all, they were supposed to be neutral.

"I was hoping you could use your legendary charm to persuade her that the rightful king should take the throne." Bhelen smiled, then hesitated. "However, if the Deep Roads have... addled her wits, it might be best she not return before the kingship is decided."

Fearghal stared at the Prince. "Are you saying I should kill her?"

"I would never say that!" Bhelen did his best to look shocked. "She is a Paragon; it is my duty to protect her. On the other hand, we must respect her decisions... Should she prefer to stay in the Deep Roads rather than help her rightful king take the throne, we must assist her. By any means necessary."

"Very well, we will find her for you."

Bhelen beamed at them both. "Excellent! My man, Vartag, will tell you all you need to know. Good luck, Wardens." With that, he nodded at them and left the room.

They spent the rest of the morning closeted with Bhelen's second, poring over maps as he detailed what they had discovered so far, then Alistair and Fearghal strolled back to the compound.

"I didn't expect you to call Bhelen's bluff like that. How did you know?" asked Alistair.

"I didn't." Fearghal laughed, then grew serious. "If the dwarves can't sort out their own succession and decide on a king so they can honour the treaty, I think our time would be better spent seeking out those who _will_ honour it; we still have to find the Dalish, and that's not going to be easy. The Archdemon won't wait for us; we have to do what we can in the time we have. If that means doing without the dwarves, then so be it. Still, I'd rather have them with us. If we can find this Paragon and convince her to pick a king, then the dwarves will have no more excuses."

"It's not going to be easy... or quick."

"No." Fearghal sighed. "I wonder if we should set a limit to how long we spend looking for her."

"A week?" suggested Alistair.

"That sounds fair enough."

"What if she wants to support Harrowmont?"

Fearghal glanced at Alistair. "Then Harrowmont will be the new king of Orzammar. We're supposed to neutral so if someone who should be making that decision is willing to make it, then I'm more than willing to abide by it."

Alistair looked startled. He cast a furtive glance around them. "But what about Bhelen?"

Fearghal dropped his voice, not wanting to be overheard. "As far as I can tell, Bhelen is the lesser of two evils. If the dwarves could solve their own problems, we'd have arrived here and be dealing with whomever they'd chosen. If the choice is ours, then we back Bhelen; if it's not, we deal with whoever is the king, get our troops and leave."

Fearghal could see the conflict in Alistair's face; he felt it, too. The image of Dust Town would never leave him; if Bhelen was prepared to tackle the unfair caste system, then Fearghal would back him as far as he could, however unpleasant he found the man. However, it shouldn't be their decision to make. He was relieved when Alistair nodded.

"I understand."

They returned to the compound to give the others the news. After speaking with Thamar at some length about what they'd need for this longer excursion into the Deep Roads, Fearghal headed up to the surface with Leliana. It didn't take long for them to find Modolf, the contact Slim Couldry had told them about. Modolf was expecting him and arranged to send the coin Fearghal needed to the compound. When Leliana told him about Zerlinda, the surface dwarf was sympathetic and agreed that if the woman would agree to leave Orzammar with her baby, he'd see she got some help. Fearghal was surprised when his offer of financial help was refused.

"It ain't necessary, Warden. If she comes up she'll be a cloudhead, same as us, and we all stick together. It's not like down there."

It was almost dark when Fearghal and Leliana re-entered Orzammar. Fearghal hadn't realised how much he missed the daylight and cast a wistful look over his shoulder as the great doors swung shut. He caught Leliana watching him and smiled sheepishly before leading the way back to the compound. By the time they returned it was almost time for dinner. Zevran offered to go to Dust Town with Leliana to find Zerlinda once they'd eaten

After dinner, Fearghal and Alistair retired to their room to pack... again. Fearghal watched Alistair tighten the buckles on his pack, then set it down against the wall, next to his own.

"So, we have to set off early in the morning... maybe we should get an early night," suggested Fearghal, unable to stop himself grinning. He saw the flicker of amusement on Alistair's face.

"Undoubtedly. We Grey Wardens need our rest." Alistair moved around the room, turning down the rune lights, leaving only one burning, tugged his shirt loose from his breeches, then sat down on the bed to take his boots off.

Fearghal pulled his own boots off quickly, then crawled across the bed until he was kneeling behind Alistair. He brushed his lips against the back of Alistair's neck.

"Need any help?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

Alistair looked back at him, smiling. "I've been undressing myself for years."

Fearghal rolled his eyes and tried again. "Well, I'm not suggesting you're incompetent or anything, but two pairs of hands would make shorter work of it than one." He slid a hand under Alistair's shirt, trailing his hand over his hard belly.

Alistair shivered at the touch, then chuckled. "Is there something you want, Fearghal?"

"Oh, definitely." Fearghal murmured, pulling Alistair's shirt up, then slipping it over his head. He left it to Alistair to free his arms from the soft linen as his mouth travelled over the back of Alistair's shoulders.

"What...what happened to saying what you want?" Alistair's voice was hoarse.

"Well, I was trying to be subtle... spare you the blushing..." Fearghal paused, his fingers untangling the laces on Alistair's breeches. "... but I suppose I should be setting you a good example."

"What do you mean?" Alistair's breath was coming in gasps and Fearghal felt him tense.

"I mean, I want to run my hands all over you, feel you shiver and tremble," said Fearghal, running his hands over Alistair's chest. "I mean, I want to undress you and taste every inch of you." Fearghal slipped his hand down inside Alistair's breeches, grasping his erection through his small clothes. "I want to suck you until you come so hard, they can hear you yelling in the palace."

"I-I..." Alistair gasped, shuddering.

Fearghal smiled and pressed his lips against Alistair's back, satisfied that the other man was beyond words. He shifted slightly, pulling his own shirt over his head and started to reach for Alistair again but hesitated, listening; he could hear raised voices. Cursing, he picked up his shirt again, but before he could pull it on, the door burst open and a red-haired dwarven warrior marched into the room, closely followed by a furious Thamar.

"I'm so sorry, Wardens, I tried to stop him!" Thamar stood in the doorway, wringing his hands.

The warrior stopped and stared at them, swaying slightly. "You're the Grey Warden's? Standards must have fallen way down."

Fearghal looked past him, at the curious faces peering over Thamar's head. He moved off the bed and stood in front of Alistair, blocking him from their view. "It's all right, Thamar. I'll deal with it."

Thamar nodded, looking relieved and pulled the door closed.

Fearghal turned towards the swaying dwarf, wrinkling his nose; he smelled like a distillery.

"Who are you and what's so important that you had to barge your way in here?" Fearghal's voice was cold. He glanced at Alistair, who was pulling his shirt on.

"Sorry 'bout that. I didn't know you were busy with _Warden business_."

Fearghal heard Alistair groan softly. "I'm still waiting to find out who you are."

"Huh? Oh, right. Name's Oghren, you might have heard of me." He looked up expectantly at Fearghal, who shook his head. "No? Oh well. Anyway, I heard you were headed into the Deep Roads to look for Branka and if you're looking for Branka, I'm the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her. I also know how she thinks. You, presumably, know everything Bhelen's scouts have discovered about where she disappeared. If we pool our knowledge, we stand a chance of finding her."

"And why are you so keen to find her? What is she to you?" What the dwarf said was certainly interesting, logical even.

"We were sodding _married_ until she left me and took out whole house into the Deep Roads on her mad quest for the Anvil."

Fearghal was astonished that anyone would consider this uncouth, drunken specimen of dwarven manhood suitable marriage material. "What anvil?"

"Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void, the secret to building golems, which was lost centuries ago. The smith, Caradin, built it, and with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace, while it was protected by the golems forged on the anvil. As far as anyone knows, the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there, if she could ever find it. All she knew was that it was past Caradin's Cross. No-one's seen that Thaig in five hundred years. So, what do you say?"

"Bhelen gave me a map to Caradin's Cross, but... are you sure you want to venture so far into the Deep Roads? It will be dangerous."

"Hah! I piss on danger! That's settled then. We should get moving, Branka's not going to sodding find herself."

"Be here first thing tomorrow," agreed Fearghal.

Oghren beamed at him. "I'll let you get back to your... whatever it was you were doing," he said with a wink. He peered past him at Alistair. "Is he all right? It don't look normal for a person to go that colour."

"He's fine... just a little shy in company." Fearghal grinned, then held the door open. "We'll see you tomorrow, Oghren. Oh, by the way, I'm Fearghal, he's Alistair."

Fearghal watched Oghren weave down the corridor, then closed the door, turning to Alistair. "Well, that was a stroke of luck."

"What, that he didn't burst in while you still had your hands down my breeches?" grumbled Alistair.

"It could have been worse. He could have turned up ten minutes later." Fearghal couldn't help chuckling at the look of horror on Alistair's face.

"Why is sex so embarrassing?" Alistair sounded miserable. "We've been interrupted by Zevran, twice, caught kissing by Leliana and Wynne; I thought we'd be _safe_ in here and now they've all seen me with my breeches unlaced. We might as well sell tickets"

Fearghal pushed home the bolt on the door. "No more interruptions," he promised. He crossed to the bed and knelt down in front of Alistair, edging his way between his knees. Fearghal ran his hands along Alistair's thighs, feeling the tension there. He leaned in, kissing Alistair gently.

"Now, where were we?"

Fearghal hummed with pleasure as Alistair's mouth parted and he felt the muscles under his hands soften as the tension leeched out of them.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to WellspringCD for being such a fabulous beta reader.

_scritch, scritch, scritch._ The tingle of darkspawn prickles over Fearghal's skin like the piercing of a thousand tiny needles. He tenses and gulps a lungful of the musty foetid air. _Ignore it. Concentrate._ He glances across at Alistair, who is grim-faced and radiating tension, his jaw set hard in a look that Fearghal has never seen on his lover; Alistair's face has never looked so closed, his eyes so hard. Alistair looks like Fearghal feels. He braces himself against the panic, the wild urge to howl in terror, to tear his own skin off.

Ahead of them a doorway. More tombs. That is all that's left down here. The darkspawn and the dead. They have left the remnants of the Legion behind them, and gone further into the Deep Roads than anyone else has in centuries. Except maybe Branka; hopefully Branka if Oghren is right.

"First day, they come and catch everyone."

The voice floats out of the gloom and makes the hair on the back of Fearghal's neck stand on end. Frozen to the spot he glances at Alistair, into wide brown eyes that hold the same confusion and fear that he feels. Alistair's head whips forward at the sound of a movement just ahead of them. Fearghal frowns and concentrates. Not a darkspawn; the prickling of his skin hasn't intensified. Tainted, though. A dwarf?

"Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat." For a second, Fearghal is concentrating so hard on the voice, on trying to locate it, he doesn't register the words. When their meaning becomes clear, he gasps and feels sweat break out on his brow.

"I reckon that might be one of Branka's House. Don't recognise the voice, though." Oghren moves through the gloom and scrapes some of the filth from the wall, uncovering a rune light. As he fiddles with it, the gloom fades, revealing the large chamber. Sarcophagi line the walls, their lids smashed and torn free. Dust swirls in the pool of light, all that remains of the dead laid to rest here.

"Third day, the men are all gnawed on again."

The hoarse voice is ahead of them, coming from beyond the doorway into another chamber. Fearghal forces his unwilling feet to move forwards, following the words like a trail of breadcrumbs.

"Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate."

The words reel them in as if they are attached to a piece of string. On through the doorway.

Fearghal runs his hand along the wall as he enters the second chamber. When he feels the tell-tale bump under his gauntleted fingers, he scrapes the grime away and rubs the rune, allowing the light to escape. The second chamber is much as the first, the sarcophagi vandalised and looted.

"Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn."

 _Turn for what?_ Fearghal pushes the thought away, unwilling to consider it. He doesn't want to know.

"Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams."

He really, really doesn't want to know.

"Oh, Maker! They don't... do they?" Alistair's voice is full of horror, his mind questing ahead to where Fearghal dare not let his go.

"Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew."

Oghren groans in disgust and cusses long and loud. Fearghal moves ahead, searching out another light, following the words even as he refuses to understand them. Alistair is close at his shoulder, almost close enough to touch. Fearghal resists. A moment's comfort would undo him.

"Eighth day, we hated it as she is violated."

_Just think on the voice, not the words. Follow the voice... the voice... the voice._

Another chamber. Fearghal finds another light and they move on.

"Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin."

The gloom of the corridor is disorienting after the soft dusty light of the preceding chambers. Fearghal hears footsteps, halting and slow and the voice beckons him, louder now.

"Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."

A sharp turn and an illuminated chamber ahead. The crouching figure is silhouetted against the light. Fearghal stumbles ahead on leaden feet and the figure stands and turns. A dwarven woman, her eyes glazed with fever and her skin dark with taint, greets them.

"Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams."

"Hespith?" Oghren sounds unsure.

The woman ignores him, gazing up at Fearghal.

"What is this? A human?" Her voice is cracked and hoarse."Feeding time brings only kin and clan. I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers' faces and open doors." She shakes her head sadly and her shoulders slump.

Fearghal looks beyond her, trying to makes sense of the lumps of flesh that litter the room. The sense of horror is back and he forces his eyes back to the woman in front of him. Her head hangs down, limp hair obscuring her face.

Her lips start to move as she begins to recite her monstrous litany again. "First day, they come and catch everyone."

"What is that chant?" Fearghal isn't sure why he's asking because he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to understand the words.

"It is what I've seen. What I will become. I force it into verse so it is fantasy, unreal. That's the only place I can hide because they make me... they make me eat. And then..." A shuddering gasp for air past the words that stick in her throat, then she continues.

"All I could do was wish Laryn went first. I wished it upon her so that I would be spared." Her eyes flick up to Fearghal's and he can see the shame in her face.

"But I had to watch." Fearghal can hear the bitter edge in her voice. "I had to see the change. How do you endure that? How did Branka endure?"

"Are you from Branka's house?" It is a futile question, Fearghal already knows the answer, but he is desperate to steer the conversation away from what she would tell him if he let her.

"D-do not talk of Branka, of what she did!" There is a quiet fury in her voice and the echo of something else. Disgust? Guilt? "Ancestors preserve us, forgive me. I was her captain and I didn't stop her. Her lover and I, could not turn her. Forgive her... but no, she cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become."

Ignoring the startled squawk from Oghren, Fearghal asks as gently as he can, "What did she do, Hespith? What did Branka do?"

"I will not speak of her! Of what she did, of what we have become. I will not turn! I will not become what I have seen! Not Laryn! Not Branka!" The cracked, rasping voice becomes a rising crescendo of anguish that breaks suddenly as the woman turns and flees.

Alistair makes to move after her but Fearghal grabs his arm. The small tunnel the woman has disappeared into is dark, freshly dug. There will be no ancient rune lights in it and they have few torches left. And Fearghal is afraid of where she might lead them.

"Let her go, Alistair. We should keep moving." He feels the muscle relax under his hand and, just for a moment, he rubs the arm under his fingers, taking a sliver of comfort from the gesture, hoping it gives some to Alistair, too.

Oghren, stone-faced, leads the way out of the chamber. Fearghal doesn't know what to say to him and is relieved to sense a group of darkspawn nearby. He whispers a warning, then hefts his shield onto his arm and charges forward.

There is freedom in combat. As his sword slashes and parries, his shield blocks and smashes, Fearghal doesn't have to think of Hespith's words, of what they mean. They forge ahead. It occurs to him as he watches Alistair fight with an aggression that is foreign to him, and Oghren whirl his axe, consumed by his berserker rage, that he is not the only one who doesn't want to think. Bane is the only one of them to be unaffected, tearing out darkspawn throats with his usual relish.

Fearghal has lost count of how many groups they have encountered since meeting Hespith. He only knows that, for now, they have stopped coming and he is exhausted. They stop to rest, washing down dried meat and stale bread with tepid water. Sleep is impossible and he doesn't know how long they can continue like this. He watches Oghren's eyes droop and settles himself against a wall to doze. He will not sleep. Down here, nightmares of darkspawn are little more than the blink of an eye away.

"Can you smell that?" Alistair's words jerk him out of his almost-sleep and his eyes fly open.

Fearghal sniffs cautiously. There is the usual stale, fusty smell that has filled his nostrils for days now. But there is something else, too. Slightly sweet, like something rotten. He nods.

"Do you think they... I mean, from what she said, it sounded like..."

"I don't know." The sound of his voice cracks like a whip across Alistair's words. _I hope I never know._ "Don't think about it, just try to get some rest." He knows better than to suggest sleep. Alistair wakes screaming and gibbering as often as he does.

Alistair swallows and nods. They sit in silence listening to Oghren snore. Fearghal lets his eyes close and thinks back over the last few days, shutting out more recent events. He hadn't expected it to be this bad, not after their first foray into the Deep Roads. The oppressive, musty darkness, the constant itch of darkspawn along his nerves that makes him want to scream and flay the skin from his bones just to stop it. The sight of the Archdemon and the horde that accompanied it deep in the trench, near where they had encountered the Legion of the Dead. Fearghal forces his lungs to expand as he recalls the heart-stopping terror of it.

He remembers his fear at the vision he'd seen at his Joining; the reality was a hundred times worse. He tries to fight the despair that threatens. How are he and Alistair supposed to kill _that_? He hears Alistair fidget and wants to grab his hand and pull him away from here and just run. Away from the Deep Roads, from Orzammar, from Ferelden. Away from his past, from the grief and the pain. Away from the future that is filled with the Archdemon.

He sighs. His backside has gone numb from sitting on the hard stone floor. He wrenches his eyes open and struggles onto his feet, ignoring his fatigue.

"We should get moving." He kicks Oghren's foot as Alistair stands, picking up his pack. The dwarf grumbles but gathers his things and then they are moving again.

After a time, Fearghal realises that the rock under their feet has given way to something else, something softer. The sweet, rotten smell is getting stronger. As they search the walls for rune lights their fingers brush over something growing on the walls. Not the usual black fungus that's easily brushed away. Torches are lit and Fearghal blinks stupidly. The walls are pink. It almost looks like... He feels sick as he realises that it _is_ flesh. It crawls along the floor and walls, like ivy. At the foot of the walls there are fleshy sacs. Fearghal draws his sword and pierces one; a grey half-formed creature spills out in a gush of fluid and thrashes weakly on the floor before he runs it through.

"They're... eggs?" Fearghal can hear the repugnance in Alistair's voice. He strides up the passage, resolutely ignoring the way his booted feet sink into the soft spongy substance that covers the floor. The way opens out into a large cavern and Fearghal can only stare at the _thing_ that confronts him.

It's a woman, or rather a grotesque parody of something that might once have been a woman. A huge mountain of flesh topped by a ravaged face on a distorted head. Rows of teats cascade down its front, as if this monstrous being is capable of nurturing. Fearghal feels his gorge rising and swallows hard. He can feel Alistair, Bane and Oghren behind him. Soft gasps of horror and Bane growling.

"Kill it!" he snarls, running forward and, eventually, they do. And Fearghal waits to wake up, screaming. But he's beginning to think this nightmare will never end.


End file.
